Mirrors
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. "Things change, Sam. I've changed; you've changed. Maybe it's time we create our own paths."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hi guys! Alright, so first of all, I have Justin Timberlake's 'The 20/20 Experience' album on repeat for weeks, 'Mirrors' is my absolute favorite song—followed closely by 'Don't Hold the Wall' (if anyone is asking)—and this story just popped in my head. It's a 4-parter, like all my other 4-parters, and I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors or inaccurate facts/representations.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Mirrors**

**Part 1**

**Aren't you somethin' to admire?  
****Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror  
****And I can't help but notice  
****You reflect in this heart of mine**

"Well, what do you think?"

He glances expectantly at me, the corner of his oversized lips tilting upwards in a slight grimace, and as his best friend, I'm not entirely sure how to break it to him. I love the dude to death and I'd jump hoops for him, but I suppose it's also my responsibility to let him know when his works are starting to scale into a pile of mushy crap. Fifteen seconds into the first verse and I thought he was playing a Justin Beiber track. Was he fucking high when he wrote that?

"You want my honest opinion, right?" I ask, sinking deeper into the beanbag chair.

Sam Evans' shaggy blonde hair falls over his forehead as he nods enthusiastically in reply.

"And you're not going to run to mommy crying when I break your heart?"

It takes a few seconds for my words to register in his head before a sigh escapes his mouth. Dejected, he chucks his pencil across the room where it hits the wall and disappears into the darker corners known as his junkyard. With a strangled groan, he jumps to his feet and paces the length of his twin-sized bed, dragging his sneaker-clad feet self-pitifully against the carpet.

"Come on, don't be so hard on yourself, Sam. There's nothing jarringly wrong with the song. It's just not exactly you."

He pauses in mid-stride. "And what exactly is 'me'?"

"You know what I'm talking about," I counter, throwing my head back to stare up at the blank ceiling. "What's with all that synthesizing shit? I thought you hated that?"

"I do," he agrees solemnly. "But what if the judges don't?"

I lift my gaze up to meet his. "Okay, first of all, this thing that you're doing—the one known as self-doubt—has to stop. It's unbecoming," I scowl, reaching out to give his wrist a hard yank so that he'll quit moving around so much. Unceremoniously, he flops down beside me and almost automatically buries his nose in the crook between my neck and shoulder. "Secondly, those big shot producers are probably going to be receiving a thousand other songs just like that one and toss them all to the side because there's nothing original about it."

"You think?" he mumbles into my skin.

Rolling my eyes at his child-like behavior, I'm confronted with a conflicted decision on whether or not I ought to let him wallow a little. "You know I'm right."

Sam lets out a snort, and his warm breath tickles somewhat, but at least it means that his dull moment has passed. I give his ear a light flick, which he reciprocates with a quick kiss to the side of my jaw before eventually pulling away.

"Thanks, Q."

"Yeah, yeah," I brush off dismissively. Being sentimental is not wired in my person because it teeters too much into the realm of feelings, and I don't deal well with emotions. "I don't know what you were smoking with that song, but we're going to do this right."

"Ouch," he winces overdramatically. "Your words hurt me so."

"Remind me again who is the one in this room with a pussy?"

He smirks lazily, one that's too cocky for my liking. "Why don't I try shoving my dick in it and then we'll talk?"

Cute, but nice try.

"Sure, if I can find it then maybe I'll give you a preview."

* * *

Russell Fabray is the city's district judge, and unfortunately for me, he also doubles up as my parental unit, which I suppose explains so much about my non-existent social life. It's also probably why I don't get invited a lot to one of those out-of-control senior parties I hear about all the time—not that I care, really.

"How was school today, Quinn?"

He does his mandatory checklist of questions where I'm formally obligated—or forced—to participate in as a nightly order of business. Retrieving some minced meat from the freezer, I start on fixing dinner for the both of us.

"The usual," I shrug non-committedly.

"Your college applications arrived today."

Fuck.

My spine goes rigid, already dreading where this conversation is about to lead.

"Have you decided which schools you'd like to attend?"

He says it like a passing remark, though his question is nothing short of rhetorical, one that comes naturally with years of experience in court, and sometimes I wonder if he sees me as nothing more than another case to attend to.

"I have a few options in mind," I reply, leveling him with a steady stare.

"I hope Harvard is one of them."

It's not.

But I'm not telling him that.

He already knows.

* * *

"I thought we agreed on Berklee," he reminds me the next day in school.

"I know, Sam," I deadpan with an impatient scoff. A few stray strands of hair falls over my face and I try to blow them aside, silently cursing the fucked up timing for a bad hair day. Not to say that I'm insanely vain or anything, but I'm pretty sure I look like a lion exploded on my head.

"You do remember me saying Berklee, right?"

We stop by my locker. "I do."

"So what's this shit about Harvard?" he asks again for the umpteenth time, his hands flailing about animatedly.

I glare daggers at him because he's not helping the cause, especially since he damn well already knows the reason why. It's grating on my last nerves. Fortunately for his wellbeing, he gets the message and immediately backs off; smart boy. As a punishment, I snatch the baseball cap from his head.

"Hey," he protests as I shove it on.

"That's for pushing your luck, Sam Evans."

* * *

There's no escaping the stereotypes in high school—especially not one that you happen to share with Santana Lopez. Of course she has to be the head cheerleader—short skirt, a high ponytail, a posse; basically, the works—and a bitch slap to match that high-and-mighty attitude. When she walks, everybody else parts just for her.

And to top it off, she fucking hates my guts.

Lord knows why; perhaps it's a kind of girl code that I'm unaware of. Maybe someone passed around a guidebook one day and forgot to give me a copy.

"Nice hat, Quinnie," she snickers past me on the way to her seat. "Did you steal it from a hobo?"

Wow, that's a really old one. You'd think with the amount of practice she gets everyday, she'd learn not to recycle her insults.

"Now that you mention it, Satan, I think I saw your mom right down that alley."

Cue synchronized gasps from her brainless minions.

"You take that back," Rachel Berry—a.k.a bimbo number four—shrieks, looking utterly mortified. Somewhere in China, the dogs are howling.

I plaster on the most sickeningly sweet grin I can muster and try not to throw up in my mouth. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, why don't I pencil you in with my ass so that you can kiss it?"

More synchronized gasps.

I'm on a roll, baby.

If I can hit three before the teacher enters, I might just treat myself to a lobotomy instead.

"You are such a freak, Quinn Fabray," Santana retorts nastily.

That one is classic.

Tilting my head to the side, I blink with faux innocence. "At least I'm not you."

Score!

* * *

"What the fuck is that?"

"Shepherd's pie," he answers, cautiously poking into the mix of yellow and brown blob on the plate. "I think."

"Looks disgusting," I comment, munching into an apple chip.

His face contorts after a mouthful of the cafeteria cuisine. "Tastes disgusting," he blanches and steals my carton of orange juice to wash the ugliness down his throat. "It's like licking Coach Sylvester's hairy armpit."

I'm cringing at the traumatizing mental image.

"I think I've just lost my appetite, Sam, thank you very much."

Despite the blatant sarcasm in my voice, he winks back playfully and proceeds on to polish off the rest of my lunch, practically inhaling everything in plain sight. What the hell; does his parents not feed this poor child?

"You're still coming over later, right?" he asks between swallows. "I mean, we really need to crack this song for the contest."

For the hundredth time, "yes, I am."

"Puck's going to be there too."

Oh, God, just kill me now.

"Great."

Sam nudges my side with his elbow—a little too enthusiastically, in fact—and creepily waggles his eyebrows. "He's been asking a lot about you recently."

"Can you please just tell him that I'm not interested in his Mohawk or his nipple ring?" I grouse in chagrin. "He keeps sniffing my hair; it's weird, okay?"

Instead of empathizing with my situation, my so-called best friend bursts out in rude laughter, and it's only appropriate that my visceral reaction is to whack him in the bicep.

"Ouch! Jesus, Quinn," he howls. "You hit like a fucking dude."

"You scream like a fucking schoolgirl but you don't see me whining about it."

He smiles even though he knows I've won this round and throws his arm around my shoulder, reeling me in to drop a chaste peck onto the top of my head.

"You know, you'd make one kick-ass lawyer," he teases, using the bitterness as final ammo to rile me up. "Maybe you should go to Harvard."

If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I can blow his head up. "Fuck you, Samuel."

"Love you too, Q."

* * *

Noah Puckerman decides that he wants to ride shotgun today, and because Sam is too oblivious to my misery, he gleefully obliges to the dude's request, much to my dismay. This is possibly the longest eight minutes of my life. Traffic rules be damned, I gun down on the gas pedal in hopes of saving my sanity as Puck tries his earnest to hit on me.

"And so I told her, 'hey, babe, you're looking fine tonight', and she totally thought that I was that dude from the band."

I nod appropriately, my lips pressed into a thin line, gritting my teeth as I tighten my grip around the steering wheel. Exercising self-restraint is a lot harder than it seems, and I'll most likely burst a blood vessel before I hear the end of it.

From the reflection in the rearview mirror, Sam tries to stifle his laughter.

Jerk.

* * *

A good two hours—and a million sarcastic remarks—later, Puck finally decides that he's sufficiently entertained enough to leave. When the door slams shut in his wake, I all but collapse on the couch, breathing hallelujah.

"Son of a bitch," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

Sam comes over and perches himself by my feet. "Oh, come on, don't be such a big baby," he pouts. "At least this time, he only made one lewd comment about your boobs."

Absolutely not amused, I land a sharp kick to his kidney, effectively throwing him off the sofa. There's a thud, followed by a grunt of some sort, and I find some satisfaction in knowing that I'm causing him half the distress that his oaf of a friend had inflicted on me. "Shut up, dickhead. How would you like it if I told you I write lullabies about your penis?"

His face appears mere inches from mine. "Well—"

"No, actually, don't answer that," I tell him, clamping a hand down on his mouth. "But can you please tell Puckerman to stop ogling my breasts?"

He shrugs his shoulders in that nonchalant manner and casually runs his index finger down the plane of my nose. "I can't refrain a dude from enjoying life's simple pleasures."

Shoving him away, I say, "you're such a fucking pig."

"You just need to loosen up a little, Q."

I roll my eyes at his generic statement. "Are we going to work on the song or not?" I ask, switching the subject to gear us back on track.

"Damn, slave-driver."

A cushion sails through the air and smacks him square on the stomach. "Don't flatter yourself. I'd have you whipped for being so shit at your job."

"You're so kinky, sometimes, I feel like you want to jump me."

And so the game begins.

The deviousness in his grin matches perfectly with mine, and slowly, with my gaze still locked onto his, I sit up, poised and ready for the kill. His eyebrow arches in preparation, the telltale flush coloring his pale cheeks as he darts his tongue out to wet his full lips.

"I think it's the other way round, Sam Evans," I murmur huskily, leaning forward at just the perfect angle in lieu of using his weakness to my advantage. "You want to jump me."

He gulps visibly, his resistance faltering in that split second it takes to move a step.

"Sucker."

Just like that, I've won.

Again.

"That's so not fair," he grumbles. "It's not like I have a cleavage to weaponize."

"Ten bucks, Sam, hand it over."

* * *

He calls me at three in the morning, the phone blaring in my ears and practically waking up half of the earth. Not entirely in favor of dear old dad storming in with a lecture on respecting other people's REM cycle, I reluctantly answer it.

"What?" I bark impatiently even though he deserves a lot more than that right now.

"I've got it!" he exclaims, all excited and high on caffeine. "I have the perfect song!"

"Go to sleep, Sam."

"No, you have to hear me out," he gushes much too enthusiastically for the hour as I creep closer to snoozing back into dreamland. "Why don't we write a song about dog tags and purple hoodies?"

"Are you drunk?"

"No, I've just been staring at the Beibs for too long."

"Good night, Samuel."

* * *

"You look like shit," I comment as we're running—or jogging—laps around the track.

"Thanks," he pants, huffing and puffing as he drags his legs through the corner bend.

"Did you even sleep?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about those damn hoodies."

"Then fuck me."

He chokes, and then trips over his feet and stumbles, arms flailing awkwardly in the air.

Oh, man, he makes it way too easy.

"Shit, Q," he gasps, catching his balance. "That was dangerous."

"I beg to differ," I call out over my shoulder. "I think that was genius."

* * *

I hate non-buttered popcorn because it tastes like Styrofoam but Sam insists that we not indulged in a heart attack, so I'll just have to settle for tasteless-in-a-bowl. It's not the best food for inspiration—considering the amount that we need to write this damn song—and if I don't get a jump on my palate soon, I think I'll hijack his entire fridge.

"How would you like to be screwed?"

There's a pregnant pause that seems to go on forever.

What the hell kind of a question is that?

"Sorry?"

That infamous smirk makes another grand entrance. I notice that mischievous glint in his striking green eyes and I know that his head is definitely in the gutter. "Against the wall? Chained to the bed? Furry handcuffs?"

"Just to be clear, in what context are you referring to?"

So sue me, I'm a judge's daughter.

He sets his notepad down on the floor and turns onto his belly to properly face me. "Your first time losing your v-card."

"Okay, first of all, please don't ever say v-card again or I might just have you put on Santana's cheerleading skirt," I frown, wishing I could scrub the aftermath off my tongue. "Secondly, what the fuck is wrong with you? You don't ask a girl that."

"But this is us, Q. There are no secrets."

It's true, though. Sam and I have been best friends for so long now, there's nothing we don't know about each other. I slant my eyes over, studying his hopeful expression that borders with child-like innocence, and I'm remembered of that one thing that had initially drawn me to him five years ago.

"You don't trust me."

He says it with a slight dose of hurt lacing in his deep voice, and I can only imagine what my hesitation looks to him. With a resigned sigh, I lower myself so that I'm lying on my side with my hands tucked beneath my ear in a makeshift pillow.

"It doesn't have to be fancy or special," I begin softly, feeling somewhat vulnerable. Averting my gaze to the collar of his blue T-shirt, I gnaw on my bottom lip in embarrassment even though he'll never judge me that way. "I don't need rose petals, or candles, or wine, or even an expensive hotel suite. Those things, they mean nothing to me."

I feel the weight of his hand on my hip, and slowly, his arms encircle round my wait to pull me closer.

"I've never really been a romantic—"

"You bawled your eyes out watching Moulin Rouge."

"Shut up," I quip back. "But you get what I mean. I don't do sweet gestures, I can't appreciate teddy bears, and my idea of a date is pigging out on the couch and playing Rock Band all night."

"Maybe you need a dick," he snorts.

"Hey, are we still talking about me losing my virginity here?"

"I'm sorry. Please continue."

"I don't want my first time to be perfect," I admit sheepishly. "I want it to be bad so that it can only get better from there, does that make sense to you?"

He nods and tightens his hold around me.

"It has to be about us—me and him—and nobody else. No expectations, no pressure—just us beaneath the sky. I want him to be a freaking mess, not knowing what to do or how to do it because then it'll make me feel less of a loser."

"You're not a loser," he murmurs, almost too inaudibly to hear.

"He's going to apologize a million times, and we'll laugh as he takes me because we'll finally understand what all the fuss is about. Maybe we'll do it on his bed, or the back of his truck, or what the hell, maybe we'll feel adventurous and lose it in the janitor's closet, but it wouldn't bother me for whenever that happens, I know I'll be ready."

He's smiling by the time I'm done with my monologue, a kind of light-heartedness dancing in the depths of his emerald orbs.

"I think you just wrote your first song, Quinn Fabray."

"What?"

"All that you've just said. Let's write it into a song."

I lean away to gawk at his face. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, let's do it."

* * *

My stealth mode has to be faulty or something because as soon as I'm confident I've made it past the front door, my dad appears like a fucking ghost apparition. A quick glimpse towards the clock on the wall reminds me that I'm way past my curfew, but when Sam and I got to writing, it was sort of hard to stop.

"Hey, dad."

"You're late," he points out curtly. "Where have you been?"

I head for the stairs. "At Sam's."

"Studying?"

"Yeah," I reply, because a white lie isn't technically a sin.

"Have you given Harvard a thought?"

"Honestly, dad, I don't think law is my thing," I inform him as patiently as possible. This can end two ways, and I'm trying hard not to rouse the neighbors. "I want to go to Berklee."

His spine goes rigid, as does his stern expression. "And what will you become? A musician?" he spits out venomously, like it's the most degrading career option in the world.

"It's what I want to do, dad."

"You know what, this is all about that boy you always hang out with, isn't it? He's putting poison in your mind. He has no goals and no future, and I've warned you long ago that he is bad company but you never listen—"

"This has nothing to do with Sam—"

"You'll regret this, Quinn."

* * *

We spend the next three days slogging our butts off in Sam's D.I.Y recording space, and it occurs to me now how mildly disturbing it is to be singing about how I envision my first time. It's social suicide at its best, and I'll be damned if this leaks out to the people in school.

"I still think we should change it to v-card."

"I still think I should shove my fist up your ass."

He snickers. "You always have such a way with words, Q."

* * *

"Well, what do you think?"

What do I think right now, is that I want to strangle the living daylights out of Sam Evans for even considering this terrible piece of idea. He doesn't heed my heated glare, but rather keeps his attention focused on the dude with the stupid Mohawk, who looks like he's deciphering a page out of the Vatican archives.

"It's definitely different from all your previous songs," he muses out loud, and then turns to leer at me. "But I think you should strip it down."

Never complete without the sexual innuendo.

"Acoustic?"

"Yeah, with just the guitars and shit."

"Sam, we don't have time to re-record this," I say, acting as the voice of logic. "We'll just have to submit the song as it is. Besides, what does Puck know about music, anyway? He's only ever managed to learn the lyrics to 'She Bangs'."

"Hey!"

* * *

It's one of those rare nights that I love. The velvet sky is practically black with ink, dotted with speckles of stars, and I marvel at the beauty, appreciating the serenity as I lie down on a blanket just staring up at the universe. Sam plucks a gentle tune on his guitar, the soundtrack for the evening in his backyard.

"Are you nervous?"

He takes a deep breath. "About what?"

"It's tomorrow."

"I don't know," he says after a short pause as I turn to study his side profile. The moonlight casts a silvery glow upon his face, and for whatever reason, my mind wanders straight to a Godforsaken vampire movie franchise. "I don't want to expect too much in case we don't get it."

"Oh, come on, don't wimp out on me now," I playfully nudge him on the shoulder. "I've just dangled my entire reputation writing that song. It better be worth it."

"It's called sacrificing for art, Q," he chuckles good-naturedly, strumming a familiar chord. "Get used to it."

"Are you composing the acoustic right now?" I ask, hearing the rest of the pattern.

"Uh-huh."

"Sounds really good."

"I know."

We settle into a comfortable silence as he continues figuring the song out. At some point, I start to hum along and he joins in with the harmony, and son of a bitch, Puck was right. Sam and I should've just submitted this version. He tinkles with a few notes at the end, and I'm grinning up to the heavens like a retarded idiot because that feels amazing.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

* * *

I have to keep telling myself that it doesn't mean a thing; that the instant his full lips brush against mine in a tender caress and send a warm tingling throughout my body, that it's nothing more than fulfilling his adolescent curiosity. My eyes are squeezed shut, as I draw in a ragged breath, overwhelmed by this new sensation, so foreign yet not at all unwelcome. He pulls away, just barely, and his scent lingers in the still air, now charged with an undeniable tension.

"Sam, what are you doing?" I ask shakily.

He leans his forehead against mine. "I don't know."

"Why'd you stop?"

**If you ever feel alone and  
****The glare makes me hard to find  
****Just know that I'm always  
****Parallel on the other side**

* * *

**A/N:** So there's part 1! A little slow at the moment, but it'll pick up, I swear!

Song used: "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hi guys! Okay, so I was suppose to update this earlier, but I just woke up one morning, re-read my original draft and hated it, so I had to re-write majority of this chapter. I'm still not entirely pleased with it—I have my reserves, and somewhere in the middle I think I lost it a bit. Damn it! Anyway, I apologize in advance for any mistakes and bad writing.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Mirrors**

**Part 2**

**Aren't you somethin' an original  
****'Cause it doesn't seem merely a sample  
****And I can't help but stare, 'cause  
****I see truth somewhere in your eyes**

I'm not avoiding him, I swear. A healthy lifestyle means that I take some time each day to exercise, which is also the only reason why I'm fucking speed walking the long way towards my locker half an hour before the bell rings. What can I say; I'm an exemplary student.

"Quinn, we need to talk."

Damn it.

Forcing a mega-watt grin entirely too wide for my liking, I turn and unleash it on my best friend, who kind of just blinks in confusion.

"Hi, Sam," I chirp, uncharacteristically cheerful. "What's up?"

He shifts on the spot and hoists the strap of his backpack higher up his shoulder, jamming the other hand into the pocket of his jeans. His worn-out sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor, and God, this is just too painful to experience without me yanking my hair out. I mean, so we made out, and it was nice and all, and yeah, it was a little awkward when his mom walked in on us, but I suppose neither of us should be overthinking this. After all, these situations happen all the time in movies. It's a classic in-the-heat-of-the-moment thing.

"Listen, you know about last night, you know when—"

Oh, shit.

"Yeah, I totally agree," I cut in hastily. "We should record the acoustic for that song, don't you think so?"

Internally, I'm cringing from the bad acting—and to think that I was Stepsister Number One in last year's school musical—because I'm putting Ms. Pillsbury to shame. Sam furrows his eyebrows in that uncanny way he does when he's not buying into my bullshit.

"That's not what—"

"I know that, okay?" I snap, not quite certain why I'm so worked up all of a sudden. I get where he's trying to go with this, but I'm sorry; I don't want a train ticket for that ride.

He balks at my outburst but otherwise doesn't move a muscle. "Is something wrong?" he asks nervously.

This is so not cool.

I just wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole right now; this is becoming unbearable. We shouldn't even be trying to acknowledge the elephant in the room here. Why is it that Sam has to be the girl in our friendship?

"Look," I begin, trying to calm myself down. "Let's not do this here, right now, okay?

"What? Why not?" His voice goes up a notch, and it's giving me the paranoid jitters. "I just thought we should, you know, talk about—"

"Hey, Sam."

I whirl around, coming face-to-face with none other than Brittany S. Pierce—a.k.a Santana's bimbo number two—as she leans against the row of lockers and twirls a lock of her blonde hair around her finger. She eyes my best friend hungrily—akin to that of a wild beast ready to attack—and then seductively licks her bottom lip.

Gross.

"Hey, Brit," he smiles, completely clueless as to the resident slut's—it's not an assumption, it's a proven theory—flirting advances. "What's up?

"I just want to say how incredibly hot you look today," she purrs.

Oh, give me a fucking break.

Rolling my eyes at her clichéd choice of words—considering she must've taken the line right out of some porn movie—I scoff in disbelief, wondering if her Queen Bee had sent her over to wind me up again.

He coughs in surprise. "Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome."

She struts off down the hallway, but not before non-subtly giving Sam a wink, her red-and-white pleated skirt swishing in the wind as she sways her hips back and forth like a freaking runway model. I'm standing there utterly dumbstruck, even as she disappears into the crowd of people, because she hadn't even acknowledged my presence.

"What the fuck was that about?" I wonder out loud.

Sam shrugs his shoulders, looking equally befuddled. "I have no idea, but can we just please talk about our kiss—"

"Let's just forget it happened, okay, Sam?"

He blinks again, staring straight into my hazel eyes. The intensity in his gaze is unnerving and uncomfortable.

I'm hoping against all hope that he understands what I'm trying to tell him.

And then he nods.

"Okay."

* * *

It's easy—albeit, way too easy—the way we're able to ignore that one catastrophe that would've otherwise destroyed our years of friendship. I'd hate it if we have to start watching the way we interact with each other.

"Is that a new book?" Sam asks, plopping down on the empty seat next to me.

"No, it's the one Ms. Pillsbury loaned to me from weeks ago." He drops a kiss to my cheek as I reach over to steal a piece of carrot stick from his lunch tray. "I just hadn't found the time to read it."

"When do you think they'll call?"

I shoot him a pointed glare. "Do I look like I know the answer to that?"

"Worth a shot."

He digs into the ham-and-cheese sandwich and finishes the whole thing in about five bites or so—damn hoover—and then drains off his apple juice in three huge gulps, punctuating his meal with a loud disgusting burp.

"Jesus, Sam," I chastise, slapping his forearm. "Where did you learn your manners?"

"From you," he smirks. "Because you're unquestionably the epitome of a lady."

"Let's hear you say that after I sock you in the balls."

In mischief retaliation, he takes my hand and licks a path across my palm—a stunt he hasn't performed since two years ago—because the last time he did it, he had ended up flat on his back in the middle of the pedestrian crossing.

I narrow my eyes at him in a way of firing a warning shot. "Are you asking for it, Samuel Evans?"

"Maybe. What are you going to do about it?"

Realizing that my usual tactics aren't going to work so much this time—kicking him off his chair is so yesterday—I decide maybe I should turn the dial up a little bit, do something that will rattle him with mental trauma for days to come.

"You see that, over there?" I point to something random over to his left, and when he turns to look, the side of his neck is left exposed for me to run my tongue up the slope to the sensitive spot behind his ear.

His spine stiffens, the saltiness of his skin sticks to my taste buds, but instead of flinching like I'm expecting he would, Sam lets out a low, guttural groan from somewhere deep in his throat.

Fuck, no.

"Was that a punishment or a prize?" he husks, the all-too-familiar lust coating each syllable.

"You weren't suppose to enjoy it, if that's what you're referring to," I retort sassily.

"If I tell you that I didn't, would you do it again?"

"Over my dead body, Sam."

* * *

"Did Brittany just wave to you?"

He seems almost as stunned by it as I am. "I think so."

We exchange dubious glances, both of us wearing identical expressions as though we've just witnessed the world's weirdest phenomenon.

"That's two hits in a day, Sam," I remind him.

"It's the zombie apocalypse, Q. It's happening."

* * *

The call comes in at seven-thirty while we're playing a game of Scrabble—one of our many guilty pleasures—and in an uncontained excitement, Sam knocks over the board to answer his phone.

"The fuck—"

"Hello?" he blurts out, and then I'm set to eavesdrop on a one-sided conversation. "Yes, this is he. Yes, that's right." Grinning like a massive idiot, he flashes me an animated thumb-up. "Well, yeah, I understand, of course." And then his face falls and his shoulders sag, the brightness clouding over in mere seconds. "Oh."

I feel my heart sinking to the bottom of my stomach.

"Yeah, sure, I understand. Thank you, I appreciate it. Bye."

He hangs up, and I don't think I've ever seen him so wretched.

"Sam?"

Dolefully, he shakes his head.

"Damn it."

* * *

Perhaps it's one of those in-built mechanisms—a kind of sixth sense—but dad somehow detects my depressing mood the instant I set foot into the house no matter how wide of a smile I plaster onto my lips.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and though he's usually short on the spectrum of emotions, there's a hint of concern in his tone.

"Nothing's wrong," I mumble, walking past him to head up to my room.

"Quinn…"

That always gets me—the way he'd say my name with that same judgment he uses in court when he's sentencing a felon or another—and I've always resented that, but this time, I can't help but loathe it even more.

"Don't, dad, okay? I don't want to talk about it."

"It's bound to fail, Quinn," he continues despite my attempt at brushing him off. "There's no future for you in music. Just forget about that silly fantasy of yours. When are you going to grow up and realize that law is where you can truly make a career out of yourself?"

"I've told you before, dad—"

"Just take the LSATs; that's all I'm asking for."

I heave a tired sigh of frustration. All I want to take is a nice, long bath and to go to bed. Is that too much? "Dad—"

"Your mom would've wanted that for you."

My eyes snap up to slice through his steely demeanor. There's a low bubbling in the pit of my core, now simmering like burning lava. No fucking way in hell did he just use that last blow on me—not like that.

"Mom would've wanted me to follow my dreams."

He doesn't back down—his stone cold façade still very much intact—and takes an authoritative step forward.

"You know, Quinn, you have to realize that Sam Evans isn't always going to be there with you. He has a path. Are you sure you're on it as well?"

* * *

I feel like I've stepped into an alternate universe; one that apparently includes Sam and Brittany talking like fucking old chums during the break between third and fourth period. While I fail to comprehend such a mind-boggling scenario, I can't deny what I'm seeing right in front of me. I watch on from where I'm standing a few feet away as they exchange smiles. Finally, with a calculated flip of her hair, Little Miss Minion-Whore saunters off to rejoin her posse.

"Okay, what the fuck, Sam?" I demand, marching up to him.

"She just wanted my opinion on acoustic guitars," he explains nonchalantly, draping his arm across my shoulders. "Mentioned something about her cat, too, but I'm not entirely sure what that's about."

"Maybe it's because you were too busy eye-raping her," I scoff.

He chuckles good-naturedly, and then playfully slaps my ass.

"Don't worry, Q, you're still my favorite."

* * *

"Maybe we should write a song about the pain of rejection," he suggests thoughtfully.

I glance over at him; sprawled out on his back, staring at the ceiling and mindlessly strumming his guitar like a lost Golden Retriever. It's pathetic, actually.

"Here's an idea," I retort sarcastically. "Why don't you write a song about the pain of me going deaf with your incessant whining?"

There's a short pause.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, enough to make me feel guilty for biting his head off.

With a sigh, I slowly crawl over his body, straddling his hips to prop my chin up on his chest. "I'm sorry, too, but we can't let this bring us down, Sam. We have to pick ourselves up and move on."

His fingers subconsciously weave themselves into my hair. "Yeah, you're right."

"Look on the bright side, though."

"What bright side?"

"At least you still have me."

The corner of his lips curls up in a lopsided smile.

"That I do."

* * *

"Quinn Fabray, I need your help."

Ms. Pillsbury pulls me into her office while I'm heading for lunch; her ginger-colored hair bouncing as she cheerfully sets me down to chat. For some reason, she always seem as though she's been injected with pots of coffee, a little jittery sometimes, too, and she sounds of a hybrid between Tweety Bird and Daffy Duck.

"Hey, Ms. P, what's up?"

"Prom is coming up," she reminds me of the dreadful event, as if the entire school buzzing about it isn't obvious enough.

Oh, hell to the no.

"Okay…" I trail off.

"I would like you and Sam to perform a couple of songs for us."

Shit.

I'm not at all against performing live—I thrive on it, in fact—but for all my years in high school, I've never once attended prom. It's not so much due to my anti-social nature or whatever; I just prefer to avoid the hassle of finding a date, getting dolled up like a fucking Disney princess, and posing for photos. Besides, I've never really worn a dress since the day mom died.

"I don't think so, Ms. P," I reply apologetically. "Prom isn't really my thing."

"But the committee is counting on you."

I seriously doubt that.

"It's nothing personal, really—"

"I'm counting on you."

* * *

I drop the bomb on Sam after school, while we're driving back to his house for our regular song-writing session, and he seems rather amused by the offer.

"What did you say?"

"I told her we'll do it," I begrudgingly answer him, scowling ahead at the terrible traffic on the road.

"Cool."

Taking my eyes off the road for a moment, I quirk an eyebrow at his unexpected reaction. After all, we'd been playing prom-hookie since freshmen year with our similar distaste for anything that requires any semblance of effort to put together.

"Cool?" I echo flatly.

He shrugs. "Brittany asked me to be her date earlier and I said yes."

I slam down on the breaks and the car comes to a screeching halt.

"You're fucking kidding me, right?"

* * *

"So it's true, then; Sam Evans has a date, and you don't?"

"Shut up, Puck," I growl, angrily slamming my locker door close.

He tails after me as I make my way to class. "I also heard that you guys are going to perform—"

I stop abruptly in my tracks and whirl around to glare at his stupid face. "Will you stop following me? There's something called personal space, Puck, respect it."

"I just—I was just wondering if you'd like to go to prom with me?"

The macho façade that I'm so familiar with is gone, replaced instead by a startling nervousness that I'll never really associate with Noah Puckerman; it's endearing, to say the least. I'm about to open my mouth to politely decline—not because I'm a snob, or that I'm waiting for Prince Charming to ask me out or anything—when something in my peripheral vision catches my attention.

Sam and Brittany.

The two blondes are huddled together, probably discussing pastel color options for their corsages.

And in a momentary lapse of sanity, I concede to my fate.

"Fine, but don't you dare show up at my doorstep with roses."

* * *

Mary Evans has always been like a mother to me, and when I mention to her one afternoon that I'm finally hauling my ass to prom, she looks like she's about to break down and cry. If there's one thing I can't handle more than emotions, it's tears, especially since she sheds waterfalls every time she starts.

"I guess I need a dress, right?"

She nods, already reaching for her purse and car keys.

"Let's go, sweetheart. You're going to look breath-taking."

* * *

"I need your help."

What is it with people and needing my help? Do I look like I provide charity services?

"What is it?"

Sam pulls me aside, and in all seriousness, asks, "what the hell is mauve?"

"Mauve?" I repeat, arching an eyebrow. "Where'd you get that from?"

"It's supposed to be a color—"

"I know it's a color, smart ass," I snort, smacking him on the back of his head. "It's purple."

He groans. "Oh, God, me and my big mouth."

"What were the other options?"

"Fuchsia or teal."

Clicking my tongue at his poor choices, I shake my head and say, "should've gone with teal."

* * *

I read the set list of songs that we're going to perform, and they're pretty decent picks, until my eyes land on one in particular.

"No fucking way, Sam," I protest, shoving the paper into his chest. "Take that last one out. We're not doing that."

"Oh, come on, but you love the acoustic cover," he begs almost pitifully, but it only serves to remind me of that one game-changing night under the stars.

"I don't love it enough to share it with the whole damn school."

* * *

"You look hot," Puck declares exuberantly into the night as he leers at my ridiculous outfit, in total disregard to the fact that my dad is standing right there, scrutinizing his appearance from head to toe.

I'll have to admit, though, for a lazy douche, Mohawk Man cleans up good, even in a black dress shirt and white blazer ensemble. Surprisingly, he's even traded his pair of sneakers for some proper shoes.

Impressive.

"Wait a second, I recognize you," dad begins, the disapproval clear as day in his tone and posture. "You're that kid who stole a six-pack from that gas station—"

Shit. Code red.

"Okay," I jump in, moving to shield my date from the impending wrath of Judge Fabray. "We should get going. Don't want to be late for prom, now, do we? Bye, dad." To Puck, I hiss, "you stole a six-pack?"

"Why? Does it turn you on?"

"You wish."

* * *

My heels are killing me, and for some reason, I keep feeling the wind blowing up my legs to my butt crack, and I'm already regretting ever agreeing to this menace. In addition to the physical distress to my ankles, the material of my baby blue dress is starting to cause some unmentionable chaffing beneath my armpits. No offense to Mary's hairdressing skills, but there's about a gazillion bobby pins jabbing into my skull at the moment, it's going to give me a pounding migraine, and don't even get me started on the huge-ass orchid corsage sitting on my wrist—big enough to be seen from outer space.

"I'll be right back."

"Take your time," I quip, not in a hurry to return to his company.

Toeing my shoes off, I quickly find a safe place to hide them before heading for the refreshments.

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

As if I haven't been tortured enough already, I have to deal with Santana outside of academic curriculum. With an Empanada between my fingers, I whirl around to brace Bitch Impact.

"Did you ride in on your hellhound, Satan?"

Her face pinches up in an intimidating glower, flushing as red as her strapless gown. "Where's that boy toy of yours?"

"Puck's over there," I sigh, already bored with our exchange.

"I'm talking about Sam, Blondie," she snaps. "Did he find someone else's feet to sniff? Oh, wait a minute; I think I just saw him with Brits. They make such a perfect couple, don't you think?"

"Fuck off, Santana. Nothing you say can make me hate this any more than I already do, so I suggest you save your putrid breath for your minions instead."

She inches closer until we're barely an arm's length apart.

"Between you and me, Quinn, I never really bought into the whole 'best friends' shenanigans. Send my condolences to your lonely heart."

* * *

I feel his strong arm encircle my waist, and then his lips are brushing against my ear. "Hey," he whispers. "You're looking absolutely beautiful. My mom did quite a number on you, didn't she?"

Something flutters in my ribcage at the proximity, and all I can feel is the heat radiating from his body as he presses his chest into my back. It's weird all of sudden—an unspoken threshold that appears from thin air—and I can't reason why, but it's tripping me out.

Fuck, what's wrong with me?

"Don't you have a date to attend to?" I ask, wrenching out of his hold. The words echo on sounding like a fucking bitter old woman, though it's definitely not my intention.

He blinks slowly. "Are you okay?"

Glancing up at his boyishly charming face, I realize that he's a tad bit confused. Honestly, I just really want to get out of this shit hole, go home and watch DVDs all night in bed with a bowl of nachos, but I also know that he's counting on me to make his first prom a good one. He might not have said it, but the days leading up to this had been spent stressing out over every detail.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

* * *

I've always found performing rather therapeutic. I don't know what the hell it is, but there's something about being up on stage that's empowering to the soul. The lights are dim and the sole spotlight blinds me as I squint out at my audience. To my right, Sam adjusts the strap of his guitar and flashes me an award-winning smile. With a nod, I cue him to start playing.

* * *

As much as I hate to admit it, Santana is right: they do make the perfect couple, even when they're both jumping and hobbling around on the dance floor like a pair of uncoordinated horses. Well, Sam is, anyway. He's not exactly John Travolta when it comes to the boogie or whatever, but Brittany doesn't seem to mind it too much.

I'm probably on my tenth cup of punch, and my fifth serving of Empanadas, but Puck is nowhere in sight. Lord knows what he's up to—probably out stealing another six-pack—and frankly, I'm glad that he's not bugging me to dance and stuff. Between Sam and I, neither one of us will ever make it as a back-up dancer.

"May I have this dance?"

"You're kidding me, right?" I deadpan.

Sam shakes his head, his hands outstretched and grinning like a big doofus that he is.

"I don't dance."

He shrugs. "That makes the both of us."

My eyes dart around desperately in search of an excuse. "What about Brittany?"

"I think I've stepped on her feet enough for one evening," he says sheepishly, the color creeping into his cheeks. "Come on, Q. It's our rite of passage."

Fuck me.

"Okay, fine."

He leads me into the crowd of bodies centered in the sports hall, and it takes me a while to realize that the songs have changed tempo into a slow ballad. Oh, great; this just keeps getting better, doesn't it?

"I want to fucking stab you right now," I murmur as he places his hands on the small of my back and brings me in closer. Instinctively, my arms loop around his neck, and somehow or another, this feels natural—as though we've rehearsed this time and again.

"Where's Puck?"

"Wouldn't I like to know?"

We sway in time to the music, and God, this is as clichéd as it can get.

"Q?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

Pulling back slightly, I gaze up at his bright green eyes. "For what?"

"For being the best friend I've ever had."

"Sam—"

"No, it's true," he insists. "You've been amazing tonight, and even though this whole prom thing isn't really your cup of tea, you still stuck by it, and I'm really glad that you're here."

"Oh, jeez, Sam, really?" I don't mean to roll my eyes; it's just a force of habit. "You're becoming a sap; what's gotten into you?"

"Maybe I'm just really happy."

"Well, at least that makes one of us."

"Do you want to split, then? Get out of here?" he suggests. "I'm sure Brittany can hitch a ride with the Satan."

"You can't just ditch your date."

"Okay, here," he says, digging into his pocket and dropping a set of keys in my palm. "Go start the car for me. I'll be out in a minute."

"You're a fucking lunatic, Sam Evans."

"Yeah, but I'm also your lunatic."

* * *

There's an old power station by the outer skirts of town that's been abandoned for quite some time now, and we're probably trespassing on government property, but it's sort of a tradition for Sam and I. We're sprawled out in the backseat, our bare feet propped up on the wound-down windows with soft Indie rock playing on the stereo as I host an archaeological dig in my hair for bobby pins.

"Do you need help with those?"

"Well, since you're asking, I would really appreciate it."

"Jesus, how many are there?" he snickers at the train wreck on my head.

"I honestly have no idea, and I'm worried that I might just wake up tomorrow morning with one lodged in my brain." Violently, I tug on a stubborn piece that simply won't cooperate. "Damn it."

Between us, we finally manage to free my encapsulated tresses.

"Oh, God, this feels so good," I groan in satisfaction, running my hands through my hair as I swish them back and forth. "Prom is such a fucking pain in the ass. I can't understand why people go through so much effort to—"

I pause in mid-sentence the instant I feel the cold pads of his fingers on my skin, and I realize all of a sudden that he is lowering the zipper of my dress. A million thoughts are racing through my mind but not one I can comprehend because his warm breath is misting over my ear, rendering me immobile and effectively shutting down my reflexes. My throat tightens even as my heart speeds up, and I'm not entirely sure what's happening, but I know that it isn't one of our stupid games.

"Sam…"

He lowers the flimsy material of my strap down the length of my arm, and it jolts me out of my temporary trance.

"Sam!" I gasp, turning my body so that I can properly face him. "What the hell?"

His sage-colored eyes are glazed over, and the semi-darkness does nothing to hide his dilated pupils and that telltale flush in his cheeks. I recognize this look—the same one he's given me just seconds before he kissed me the previous time.

Fuck.

"No, Sam, we can't—"

"I just want to know—"

"We can't," I reiterate, more forcefully this time. "This can't—"

He tears his gaze away from me, and it's enough indication that something is amiss. "Don't you want to know?" he mumbles—something he only does when he's absolutely nervous—though it only serves to heighten my confusion.

"What's this really about, Sam?"

"Brittany wanted me to screw her before prom."

I get a hitch in my windpipe. "Did you?"

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I wanted you to be my first."

**I can't ever change without you  
****You reflect me, I love that about you  
****And if I could, I would look at us all the time**

* * *

**A/N:** First of all, let me start by saying that I don't hate Brittany. I love her character in Glee, honestly! I might've been bitter during that Bram period but I don't hate her. Heck, I've met Heather Morris and she's really nice! Any attack I might have in this story is solely based on Quinn's point of view in my imagination, so please don't flame me for that. As I've mentioned earlier on, I'm not entirely pleased with this update, so again I apologize for putting you guys through this.

**Mandorac:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad you loved the lyrics! I have to admit, though, I think I'm having a small identity crisis with this chapter. It's giving me mixed feelings and I'd like to know what you feel about it :D Cheers!

**J.D. Toulouse:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Glad to know that you've enjoyed my other two 4-parters, as well as how I've portrayed Sam and Quinn in this story! I truly hope I've not disappointed you with this one, though, definitely not my best update. Let me know what you think of it, yeah?

**OhHeyAl:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story, and leaving wonderful comments! LOL! That's my favorite bit too because my colleague was talking about the Billboard Awards while I was writing, and it came out of nowhere, so that was my favorite line! It practically wrote itself!

**RJRRAA:** Hi! It's always so nice to hear from you! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my previous chapter! I've decided to take a different spin in characterizing Quinn in this story, and yeah, it was weird when I first started writing her point of view too, but I'm glad you liked it!

**SportyGirl00:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Mrang12:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the first chapter! I'm glad you like it so far, and I really appreciate your wonderful comments! I try to make the characters as relatable as possible, because yeah, not every story comes right out of a Nicholas Sparks novel, especially since Sam and Quinn are high school seniors!

**Agronderwood:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you liked Quinn as a tomboy because I wasn't really sure about that when I first started writing her point of view. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Quams:** Hi! First of all, glad to know that Mirrors is also your favorite song on the JT album, and there are so many wonderful tracks in there, it's almost impossible not to be inspired! Thank you so much for your wonderful comments, and I have to admit, I'm not really sure about this chapter—it's definitely not my best—but I hope you've enjoyed it!

**Jenny:** Hi there! Awwww…thank YOU for reading and reviewing my story and leaving wonderful comments! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**G:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad that you've enjoyed my other two 4-parters! LOL! I've never really thought of making my own book, mainly because I wouldn't be able to publish Quinn and Sam legally since they belong to RIB and FOX, and it just doesn't feel right to substitute their names with some other. Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Dosqueen67:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my previous chapter! I'm glad it met your expectations :D Okay, so Berklee College of Music is kind of like a college for contemporary music in Boston, Massachusetts. I get what you mean about Berkeley, and I did intend to use that school but Berklee is in the same state as Harvard (hint, hint)!

**Allison237Gleek:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hehe! I'm not so sure about this story being the best one yet since I'm kind of on the fence about this chapter, but I hope you've enjoyed it!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story, and your comments are so flattering, I hope I haven't disappointed you with this chapter! I'm having mixed feelings about this, but I hope you've enjoyed it!

**NayaholicJustForNaya:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm really glad you've enjoyed my other two 4-parters—they've been a blast to work on—and yeah, it was totally weird for me when I first wrote Quinn's character as a tomboy. I kept re-writing dialogues and sentences, and it's always wondering 'would she say this?' or 'how should she react to this?' that gets me all the time. Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**SamEvans17:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my fanfic! I'm glad that you've found it funny so far—humor is tough to write, LOL—so it's nice to know that I did justice to the fandom!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Hi guys! I know this is super overdue, but I had been busy, especially since it was my friend's wedding last week and I was her maid of honor, which kind of left me running errands and what not. Anyway, because I re-wrote majority of chapter 2, I had to revisit some stuff for chapter 3, which is why this got delayed. I still hope you like it!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Mirrors**

**Part 3**

**'Cause with your hand in my hand and a pocket full of soul  
****I can tell you there's no place we couldn't go  
****Just put your hand on the glass  
****I'll be tryin' to pull you through  
****You just gotta be strong**

I'm stuck in that God-awful moment—that deafening sound of silence, broken only by the quiet breathing—and I hate it. The emotions swirling in my gut are making me nauseas, but I'll be damned if I throw up in Sam's car. His touch is still warm and tender on my arm as his thumb draw circles on my skin, and I realize that he's waiting for me to say something.

Shit.

My throat suddenly goes dry, the words choking on my tongue.

It's almost poetic, really.

"If we do this, there's no going back," I murmur shakily. "I don't want anything to change between us."

For the better part, he looks partially relieved. Lord knows why; the boy is fucking weird sometimes. Gingerly, he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

"Nothing has to change, Quinn—"

I bat his hand away with a scowl. "That's where you're wrong. Can you honestly tell me that you won't look at me different after this?"

There's a slight hesitance in his answer. "It could be our one-time thing."

Son of a bitch.

I don't know why he's so fucking adamant on banking in his first time tonight—in the backseat of his sedan, no less—and with me looking like a prissy clown in a stupid prom dress that is probably made up of cotton candy and tissue paper.

We've never reached to the peak of this mountain in our lives before, never truly discussed the prospects. Sure, we've mentioned it in passing, possibly taken jabs at each other about porn—in addition to writing a whole song dedicated to my non-existent sexcapade—but as much as we enjoy teasing each other shitless with innuendos and what not, actually going through with the act itself breeds an entirely new level of trust that five years wouldn't be able to cover.

"You would risk our friendship for this?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He takes his sweet time piecing up a reason.

"Because it's you, Q," he says, staring into my hazel eyes. "There's nobody else I'd rather share my first time with. I feel comfortable with you—no pressures of performing—and I trust you. If I suck bad, I know that you're not going to announce it to the other girls in the shower or scribble it on the toilet walls."

I arch an eyebrow tauntingly. "What makes you think I won't? Maybe I'll use it as blackmail for when I really need you as my slave."

Did I just fucking say that? Slave? Seriously?

His sage-colored orbs twinkle in that familiar glint of mischief. "Then maybe I'll accidentally mention to Puck what a little minx you are in bed."

Just like that, we're back to the playful banter.

"Well then, perhaps the female population should know of that mysterious rash on your penis."

He narrows his lids. "Oh, I see how this goes."

"Do you, now?"

His fingers skim the top of my bodice, outlining the twin mounds of my chest as he smirks. "You're scared."

Scoffing at the absurdity of such a bold statement, I viciously retort, "of you? Really?"

Sam leans in to draw his nose closer. "That would be most flattering, and perhaps hoping for too much," he chuckles before his voice drops a register. His calloused hands find purchase on the curve of my hips, and when he gives a squeeze, I can't help the strangled gasp that escapes my parted lips. "But you, Quinn Fabray, are afraid of your own emotions."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I snap back.

"You don't think you can handle it."

I sigh in exasperation. "Handle what?"

"The change," he answers easily.

"That doesn't mean I'm afraid, you dick. It just makes me realistic."

His face pinches in his own frustrations. "So you're telling me that you'd rather give your first fuck to some dude you probably barely know anything about instead of me, your best friend?"

"It's because you're my best friend that we can't do this, alright?" I burst out, wriggling out of his grasp. "I can't lose you, Sam."

He cups my cheeks in his palms. "Quinn, we've been through hell and back—fought through everything together—and nothing, and I mean, nothing can tear us apart, you hear me? It's just that, unlike you, I want my first time to be special—"

"You're such a fucking sap—"

"Let me finish, Blondie—"

"Hey!" I protest, loathing the stereotypical nickname.

"Okay, will you please shut up and let me continue?"

Drill sergeant, much.

"I'm not asking us to do it because I want to get my first time out of the way so that I can go screw around with other girls," he tells me. "When Brittany made that offer tonight, the first thing I thought about was you, and how maybe somewhere in my head, I've always figured you'd be my first. Call me a pussy, whatever, but I don't think I can rob myself of losing my virginity to you."

I blink, and for the second time, he's rendered me speechless. "You sound like a damn Nicholas Sparks book, you know that?"

He smiles in that lopsided manner. "Is that a 'yes, Sam, I'll let you deflower me right now'?"

"It's not a 'no'."

* * *

It's laughable—this little arrangement of ours—because clearly we're just setting ourselves up to walk straight into a death trap. The foreshadowing image haunts me as his trembling fingers clumsily fumble with the buttons on his dress shirt.

"Just stop that," I growl, barging in to finish off the task myself. "If I have to wait for you, it'll take me till next year to have you shove your dick in my vagina."

"Wow, this is romantic," he quips back sarcastically.

I pause in my ministrations, already down to the last button and glare daggers into his eyes. "If I want romantic, I'll just rent a movie and be done with it, Sam."

"What about all those things you've told me before, about how you envisioned your first time to be like?" he asks, weaving his digits into my tresses.

"Expectations," I shrug my shoulders.

"Quinn…"

He utters my name like a plea to the heavens, and somehow, it becomes my undoing, because fuck Sam Evans; he may be a walking teddy bear most days but he chooses his weapons well.

"What do you want from me, Sam?"

"I just want you."

* * *

For the longest time, we just stare at each other—both contemplating—waiting for something to happen, and when the clock ticks another minute, the delay just seems ridiculous since we're simply prolonging the inevitable.

"I don't know about you, but generally, sex involves two people getting naked."

He grins at me, that idiot, and then wordlessly starts tugging on his loosened tie before tossing it aside. It isn't until he unbuttons his shirt that it occurs to me that I'm also participating in this.

"Don't look," I command sternly.

Pausing in his ministrations, Sam regards me warily. "I'll have to, eventually."

Damn it, he's right.

I click my tongue in impatience. "Just turn around, okay? Don't peek."

"Fine," he concedes, discarding his shirt before tilting his topless body to face the window. "But I assure you it's nothing I haven't seen before."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure," I snort. "Because your mail is overloaded with porn subscription."

"No, wise-ass. I walked in on you a year ago when you failed to lock the bathroom door."

Do I need to be reminded of that?

Jesus, it was probably the most mortifying day of my entire life.

"You were supposed to fucking knock before you enter, like every normal person," I spit out, almost ripping my dress off in my emotionally unstable state. It pools haphazardly on the floor, leaving me clad in only my plain cotton underwear. "Pervert."

"Hey, now, watch it," he shoots back over his shoulder.

I hear the distinct clinking sound of his belt buckle, followed promptly by the quick work of a zip, and at the crisp ruffle of his pants, I get the first hit of nerves. Stealing a quick glimpse, I'm met with the sight of Sam's naked ass while he struggles in the tight space to undo his boxers.

"Do you need me in my birthday suit?"

He turns around, studying my semi-nude self. "What's wrong? Is Quinnie feeling self-conscious?"

I smack him straight up on the side of his head. "Excuse me if I'm not a fucking exhibitionist like you."

One eyebrow springs up in retaliation. "Be nice or I might just rip your bra and panties off your gorgeous self and toss it out the window."

Fucking barbarian.

Well, two can play the game.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

* * *

So we're finally naked, and he's ogling my breasts as though he's just about seconds from ravaging it or swallowing it hold, take your pick, but it's a strange sensation to be scrutinized as such. I feel like I'm an experiment under a microscope.

"Do you have any rubber with you?"

He reluctantly peels his eyes off my chest. "What rubber?"

I huff at his stupidity. "A hat."

"Why would I need a—"

"A condom, you idiot."

* * *

The sex itself is awkward as fuck. He props me on my back, the leather of the backseat warm and a tad bit sticky with sweat, and hitches my legs over his shoulders. Good grief, I think I might just become a contortionist after this.

Gazing up at his boyishly handsome face, I'm suddenly aware of how nervous he is, the uncertainty clear in the way he gnaws on his bottom lip. His throbbing member pokes gently at my entrance—sleek and wet—and I'm almost embarrassed by it, but the concentration deep in the crevice between his brows is most amusing.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He blinks out of his trance. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Be gentle."

Inch by inch, he sheaths himself into my opening. The initial sting hurts like a bitch, and I can't help but squirm a little at the discomfort. Sam snaps his eyes up to meet mine.

"Shit, was that—did I—sorry, I wasn't—"

"Shut up, Sam, I'm fine," I groan, feeling the stretch. "Keep going."

Inhaling a sharp intake of air, I brace myself for the final push to the end until there's nowhere else for him to go. He pauses then, steadying himself with his lids squeeze shut, breathing heavily through his mouth, and for the second time, I ask if he's all right.

"Just a second," he strains out.

I find it comical, though I'm not exactly sure why, but I burst out in giggles.

"Stop laughing," he chokes. "It tickles."

* * *

It doesn't take long before Sam reaches his peak, grunting as he releases into the rubber barrier, his manhood still snug inside my cove. Panting and spent, he collapses unceremoniously above me, his weight almost crushing my chest.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers, his warm breath on my skin. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've just had sex with a fish."

"Ouch," he grimaces apologetically. "Sorry."

"Did that emasculate you?"

His chest rises and falls as he shrugs his shoulders. "A little."

"Good."

* * *

"Hey, Quinn!"

Puck catches up to me as I'm making my way to the cafeteria for lunch and casually drapes his meaty arm across my back. Annoyed at the unnecessary call for proximity, I slap it away, glaring hard at the ass-wipe.

"Fuck off, Puck," I growl menacingly in reply, hoping he would just leave me the hell alone.

He doesn't of course, because he's stupidly oblivious and ignorant that way, and continues trailing after me like a slobbering pug. "Look, Q, I just want—"

"Don't call me that," I snap, halting right smack in the middle of the hallway.

"But Sam calls you—"

"And only Sam is allowed to, you got that?"

The dude raises both his hands in surrender, looking mildly harassed. "Yeah, I got it."

"Why are you pestering me, anyway?" I demand.

He brushes one hand sheepishly over his artistically cropped hair. "I just want to apologize for prom—ditching you and what not—and I guess I wasn't thinking—"

"Save it, Puckerman," I tell him, already bored with the conversation. "Just forget it, okay? I don't want to talk about it."

"I hope you're feeling better."

I stare blankly back at him. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," he nods with an animated gesture. "Brittany said that Sam gave you a lift home because you were having some sort of migraine."

Son of a bitch.

"Oh, that," I force out a chuckle, trying to sound nonchalant. "It was nothing."

"You sure? You look a little different today."

God, did he notice it when I walked?

"Maybe it's because I haven't punched you in the nuts," I retort.

On cue, he shields his crown jewels before I can make good on my threat, earning an approving grin from me.

"Have a good day, Puck."

* * *

Sam joins me in line as I'm piling my tray with food, effectively cutting the queue as he leans down to murmur in my ear. The sophomore behind me huffs impatiently, so for her efforts, I flash the middle finger.

"Brittany asked me to be her boyfriend."

My hand freezes on the mango pudding for that split moment it takes to register his words. I don't know why it surprises me, though, because I suppose it's dimly appropriate—given the obligation it follows after escorting the blonde to prom.

"And?"

He reaches out for a tuna sandwich—gross—and plops it heedlessly on his otherwise empty tray. "I couldn't say 'no'."

"So you said 'yes'?"

Sam nods silently.

"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

* * *

And then it's as if someone has flipped a switch between us. There's an obvious shift in our friendship—in his priorities—and for the first time since we've met five years ago, it isn't just me in his life. Gone are the intentional flirting and suggestive innuendos that would usually accompany Sam's every comment. It's clean—straight—ironed out like a fucking airport runway.

And I hate it.

The change; this isn't us.

This isn't Sam and I.

* * *

That afternoon, he brings her over for our usual session even though he knows better than to invite company to something so private to us. Before I can berate him for it, however, he pulls me aside with a rueful expression.

"Look, I know I should've asked you beforehand, but Brittany sort of insisted she come with, and I can't really deny her, you know, so I hope you don't mind that she tags along, just for today," he rambles on in that uncanny way he does when he's truthfully sorry.

"Fine," I concede, just because he looks kind of pathetic and that I have no doubts he'll beg me on his knees if I don't relent. "But just for today."

"I promise."

* * *

Brittany S. Pierce is fucking tone deaf. Her notes don't even sit on the music staff; so really, I think I've just tortured my eardrums in the last forty-five minutes. Frankly, I don't know why Sam is even allowing her to sing the same damn song for the fifth time in a row—repulsively off-key, mind you—and one that I've written, no less.

Can't she find another song to butcher instead?

"Why don't you take five, Brits? Grab some water, you know, so you don't strain your vocal cords," I suggest as civilly as possible.

"Great idea!" she chirps in a million shades of rainbow before skipping out of the room.

The moment she's out of earshot, I turn to my best friend. "I don't fucking care if she's your girlfriend or whatever, but if she sings one more time, I'll have to stick my foot down her throat, you hear me?"

He smirks, clearly enjoying me in pain—that sadistic bastard—and tweaks my nose.

"Loud and clear."

* * *

She shows up during lunch, rudely interrupting my heartfelt opinions on Harvard, plants a big, wet kiss on Sam's lips and then steals him away to go sit with The Satan and the rest of her posse, only to have that empty seat next to me immediately occupied by Noah Puckerman.

Bitch.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it," he says and takes a huge bite of his burrito. The sauce drips down his chin and in typical male fashion, he wipes it off with his thumb and sucks it clean.

"Who let you loose from the zoo?"

He chugs down half of his soda before releasing a boorish burp. "Brittany's going to get bored of him in a week, trust me."

"You do realize that I don't really like you, right?"

* * *

"We need to cancel our session today."

Slamming my locker door shut, I turn to shoot lasers into his skull. "What?"

Sam glances guiltily down at the linoleum floor. "Brittany has been complaining about how we haven't been on an official date—which I guess is sort of true—and I suppose we can afford to miss a session, right?"

The volcano broils in the pit of my stomach, and I have half the mind to tell him off so that he'd man up to his precious girlfriend, but he's giving me that helpless look that I can't deny in a thousand years.

"Fine. Whatever."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Brittany becomes a regular disruption in anything marginally related to Sam, and needless to say, it's pissing me off. The other day, she barged in while we were recording a track—effectively ruining it, of course—and demanded that he accompanied her shopping for a new pair of shoes. Last night, Sam was whisked away from me just as we were about to start our regular movie night. Just fifteen minutes ago, he totally bailed on me in the parking lot, so I'm left with no other choice but to hitch a ride from Puckerman.

"Can I kill her already?" I grumble to nobody in particular.

From the driver's seat, Puck snickers unsympathetically.

"Shut the fuck up, okay?"

* * *

My cellphone rings and his name flashes on the screen. Narrowing my eyes suspiciously at the device, I allow a few more seconds to pass before answering his call.

"You're actually alive?"

"Okay, I'm sorry," he blurts out from the other end of the line, slightly flustered and out of breath, and I hope to God he's not mid-sex-dialing me. "I know we haven't been able to spend much time together, but you know how Brits is."

Yeah, she's a clingy ho, what's his point?

"What do you want?"

"Don't need to bite my head off, Q," he mutters, the hurt evident in his tone, and I realize how strained our friendship is. "I actually have great news to tell you, but since you're in such a foul mood—"

"Just quit it with the guilt trip and tell me what it is," I snap back.

"I received a call earlier." He pauses, probably for dramatic effect or something. "From Indie Peeps Records."

Did I hear right?

"Holy shit," I exclaim, jumping to my feet. "You better not be fucking with me, Sam Evans."

"Not this time, Quinn."

I begin pacing the length of my bed. "Well, what did they want?"

"They have a proposal for us."

* * *

Right now, I have no idea why I'm creeping around in my own house, but as I tiptoe down the stairs and take a peak into the living room, I heave a sigh of relief that dad is still awake watching some show on the television. Poking my head in, I clear my throat to gain his attention.

"Dad? Can I have a word with you?"

He mutes the volume as I walk over to sit on the couch.

"What is it, Quinn?" he asks.

I play with my fingers—a sort of bad habit—still unsure how to break it to him the most wonderful news I've ever received in my life. "A record company wants to sign me and Sam as a duo. There'll be producers, singles, albums, gigs, tours—the works—and the best thing about it is that we're allowed to write our own material. They heard what we did for the contest and loved the song. It'll be an amazing opportunity for me."

Instead of bursting out in hysterics like I was predicting he would, dad actually studies me carefully, weighing his words.

"And what about Harvard?"

"I don't want to go to Harvard, dad."

His brows furrow disapprovingly. "Don't you think it's a good idea to have something to fall back on in case this music thing doesn't work out?"

Does he really have that little faith in me?

"Are you trying to jinx this?" My tone goes up a notch, my defensive wall automatically activating like clockwork.

"I'm just being realistic," he counters rationally. "These things don't last forever, and I'm just going to choke it up as a phase that you're going through, so I'll humor you today. Here's the deal, Quinn: I want you to take the LSATs. If you can prove to me that you can be a lawyer and a musician, you can take the recording contract, but you need to attend Harvard."

Shit.

Why does my dad have to be the fucking district judge?

"But that's—"

"A compromise. Take it or leave it."

"It's a deal."

* * *

"So what's the verdict?"

I glance up from reading the book to find my best friend hovering over me with the most ridiculous grin I've ever seen on his face. His green eyes are wide and twinkling with child-like excitement.

"Well, hello stranger," I mutter, deciding to give him a little bit of the cold shoulder before returning to the story. "Nice to finally see you again."

He sighs. "Come on, Quinn. Don't be like that."

Slamming the novel down on the table, I glower at his pathetic self. "Oh, I'm sorry, the last time I checked, I have the right to be pissed at you for ditching me a million times over."

"It's not my fault—"

"Cut the bullshit, Sam. Are you going to keep using the same excuse after the record label signs us?" I shoot back heatedly, just fucking tired of his whipped-up attitude. "Are you going to leave it to me to write the songs for us while you play Barbie and Ken with Little Miss Sunshine?"

"What? Of course not," he proclaims. "When we get signed, I'll definitely put all my time and effort into it."

"Then prove it, Samuel."

* * *

I'm not sure how long his promises are going to last, but he keeps to his words, meeting me after school sans his girlfriend for our session. He's ecstatic, constantly rambling on in the car as he drives back home, and I nod appropriately, replying only when I deem necessary.

"Have you ever been in love?"

His question catches me off guard.

"In love?" I parrot scornfully.

"Yeah, you know," he shrugs his shoulders, his gaze still fixed on the road ahead. "Like when you're around somebody, you feel that all is right and colorful in the world, and that poverty doesn't exist—"

"Are you having a fever?" I lift my hand up to his forehead, only to have it swatted away.

"Quinn, I think I'm in love."

My spine goes rigid, iciness washing over me.

"With Brittany."

I feel a sudden lump in my throat. "Oh."

"I don't know." His expression goes wistful, as though he's parading in a dream of meadows and stallions. "I feel different when I'm with her, you know. It's easy; she's not fussy, she speaks her mind, she's always smiling, and her kisses are—"

The mental image burns.

"Don't."

"Should I tell her?" he asks, tapping on the steering wheel.

"If you want to."

"Do you think she'll feel the same?"

I turn to study his side profile, noticing how apprehensive he is about himself, and I can't help being the good friend that he needs.

"She has to be fucking stupid not to."

* * *

"No, bring that chord back down to a G."

He obliges to my instruction and strums the pattern again from the first bar. I miss this—working together to create music—and is it horrible to wish for Brittany to disappear from the face of this planet? The thoughts don't scare me so much—I've wished for worse on people—but more the sentiment behind it. Am I being a selfish friend?

"Have you talked to your dad yet, Q?"

I pause, making a split second decision.

"No."

* * *

We find ourselves in the backyard, lying down on the same blanket we've always used, but tonight, the stars don't seem to shine as bright, or maybe it's just me. Sam rolls on his side to face me, his nose a good few inches away from mine.

"Are you okay?"

It shouldn't be this hard to answer him.

"Why do you ask?"

"You seem different," he points out, regarding me with a sense of ambiguity.

"I'm fine."

* * *

He chases me down the hallway, catching up to me just before I make it to the cafeteria, narrowly tackling me in the process. His cheeks are flushed bright red and he's panting from the effort.

"Dude, you're so fucking out of shape."

Sam rolls his eyes, but the megawatt grin plastered on his oversized lips doesn't falter in the least bit. "Guess what?"

"Don't ask me to answer rhetorical questions, Samuel."

"I told Brittany that I love her," he burbles foolishly.

I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to react to that.

"Okay…" I trail off.

"And she told me that she loves me too!"

A montage of puke-worthy images start flooding through my head—Sam and Brittany skipping along the beach holding hands, Sam down on one knee with a gigantic ring in his hand while he proposes to Brittany, Sam and Brittany's extravagant wedding somewhere in fucking Hawaii, miniature Sam and Brittany clones teetering in the backyard of his new mansion, and in the midst of it is me, forever bitter and alone living with my seventeen cats—and it's all too much.

Here's where I put my sub-par acting skills to good use while I force out as sincere a smile as I can muster.

"Wow, congratulations."

* * *

Dad leaves a stack of law books the height of the fucking Empire State Building on my desk, effectively reminding me of the LSATs. Dreadfully, I pick one up to casually browse through, not expecting to be sucked in by the interesting criminal cases.

Hours fly pass, and all of a sudden, the sun is rising.

"Shit."

* * *

"Brittany is actually considering attending Berklee."

The ink smudges on the page when I press a little too hard.

"Don't you have to be musically inclined to get in?" I retort with unmasked sarcasm.

"I'm sure her dad can pull some strings."

I arch an eyebrow. "Her dad?"

"He's in the college's board of trustees."

Fuck me.

* * *

I take a scan around the lecture theatre at all the potential lawyers, and then down at the manila envelop in front of me. A humongous clock hangs on the wall as though mocking me with the time.

This is it.

Picking up my blue ballpoint pen, clicking it to mark my starting point.

"You may begin. Good luck."

* * *

Of all the fucking places in the entire universe, I have to bump into them at the park.

It's late in the evening, and Puckerman and I are on our way back from Walgreens. He had called earlier on in sheer panic—said his mom needed sanitary napkins—and thought I'd be the best candidate for humiliation. Before I can hang up on him, however, he'd somehow or another managed to persuade me into tagging along with the promise of a free dinner.

"Hey, isn't that Sam and Brittany?" Puck declares, stating the obvious.

"Yeah, well—"

"Let's go say hi," he chirps, ignorant as usual, and grasps on my wrist.

"Wait!"

We skid to a stop, and right before my eyes, I see Sam lowering himself with a tiny box in his hands—one that is unmistakable even from the distance.

"Quinn…"

"We're getting the fuck out of here."

* * *

No matter how hard I try to avoid him the next day, he still manages to hunt me down, that fucking pest. He pops up out of nowhere, cornering me before I can even think of escaping. All is joyous in his world, beaming and gleaming like a sea of diamonds, and I'm too tempted to slap him across his pretty face.

"You wouldn't believe what happened last night," he gurgles with the resemblance of a toddler. "I took Brittany out for dinner—a date—and then we took a walk in the park—hang on, what's that?"

I halt in my movements, one hand in the air.

He reaches out, cutting across in front of my chest, and pulls out an all-too-familiar book from the shallow depths of the compartment.

Fuck.

"What's this?"

I suppose it's time to face the music. Squaring my shoulders in a false pretense of confidence, I tilt my chin up slightly to reply, "a book."

"Law?"

"My dad is right, Sam. I need an alternative to fall back on in case—"

His face twists with a spectrum of emotions. "But we're going to Berklee."

I grab the book from him. "I'm not. I took the LSATs the other day."

He stares hard at me for a full minute. "Why didn't you fucking tell me?"

"There was never a right time," I riposte. "You're always off honeymooning with your precious girlfriend, anyway, and now that she'll be with you in Berklee, I don't have to be the third wheel or your last resort whenever you need something done."

"What about the record deal? We can't work together with us being in separate schools."

"I never said I agreed to it, Sam."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Slamming my locker door shut, I take a step forward, invading his personal space so that he knows that I'm not afraid of his shit. "It means that I'm not doing it. I'm your best friend, Samuel, not just your partner. You can take the recording contract if you want, but I don't want to be involved as your sloppy seconds."

"We made a promise."

"Things change, Sam. I've changed; you've changed. Maybe it's time we create our own paths."

**'Cause I don't wanna lose you now  
****I'm lookin' right at the other half of me  
****The vacancy that sat in my heart  
****Is a space that now you hold**

* * *

**A/N:** So, wow! Intense! Well, this chapter is definitely longer than the previous one with a lot more drama, and again, I apologize for the really late update. Hopefully nobody is emotionally scarred by this!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my previous chapter! LOL! Well, it did actually cross my mind, whether I should make Quinn hit Sam or not when he unzipped her dress, but I decided she probably needed a little longer to react. I met Heather while I was taking dance classes when I was in LA. She was standing behind me, actually, and initially I hadn't realized it was her. She declined to be photographed that day, though, so I didn't get to grab a picture with her, but she was nice about it :D

**Mandorac:** Hello there! As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story, and giving me wonderful comments to encourage and motivate me! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like the internal turmoil in Quinn in regards to her friendship with Sam and how she's dealing with the inclusion of Brittany in his life. It's tough, because she's this really strong character, but when emotions are involved, she's just so confused by it all. LOL! It's a relief to know that I hadn't offended Brittany too much because Quinn is kind of a potty mouth in this story. Hehehe! Glad you found that particular line amusing! It's always like "she's the man in our relationship" or something, so I wanted to do a reverse of that. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! I look forward to your comments! Cheers!

**Nicole:** Whoots! Hi there! LOL! Wow, you left a really long review, didn't you? Thank you so much for taking time and effort to contribute your comments! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like the storyline so far, and yeah, Sam does seem like the softer one in their friendship, but it's like a ying and yang thing. Balances their personalities.

Thank you so much for the compliment on cliffhangers. It's actually quite tough because I have to many breakers in my story, so every dialogue has to be sort of planned in tune with those cliffhangers. I like how you mentioned the friendship between Sam and Quinn, and how even though she is rough, she still does have a soft spot for him, which is totally true! I think I've written a couple of friendship-turns-relationship stories now, it actually kind of sound the same to me, but I think I'm sort of working backwards with my stories. Fix You came out first, and Sam and Quinn were already in a friends with benefits stage, so that's partial romance to full romance. Build You Up is a typical romance story right off the bat, so for Mirrors, I wanted to explore something in the middle, with their common ground of friendship, so hopefully that shows through. I totally get what you mean about writer's block. It's always starting that very first paragraph that eats at you, but sometimes what I do, is that I'll write the middle portion first and then get the first part in since the intro is mostly about establishing character, time period, place etc.

I've always been a bit of a perfectionist, especially considering how much Fabrevans means to me. Again, thank you so much for the wonderful comments! I'm really flattered :D Hopefully you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! I'm glad to know that you've enjoyed the previous chapter, especially the prom bits! Gives me a sense of relief :D LOL! Awwwww…thank you so much for the comment about wishing this story isn't just a 4-parter! Frankly, 4-parters are planned so that the story is snappy. It's kind of like a hit-and-run :D I like how you point out that Quinn is Sam's number 1 because in this chapter, clearly you'll see the change in that aspect. Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Agronderwood:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! Well, in this chapter, Sam is in fact Quinn's first and vice versa! Hope you've enjoyed it!

**Pieceofcupcakes:** Hi there! I'm really flattered! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I appreciate you going out of your way to comment about my story :D Well, Just Give Me a Reason is one of my favorite songs at the moment, and you totally did justice to it, and it was perfect! I'm glad you like the way I describe the characters and their situation :D I hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Burnthiscityxx:** Hello! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing this story! You know I love you and your work :D I'm glad you like this story so far, and the friendship between Sam and Quinn. That outcast bit I think was probably inspired after watching Perks of Being a Wallflower like a million times, so she's kind of like the Emma Watson of this story. LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**J.D. Toulouse:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! Glad to know that I haven't disappointed you in any way with the previous chapter. I was really nervous about it! I'm glad you liked the sarcasm and humor. It's those sort of things that you can only write about because you'll never get a chance to say them out loud. LOL! I'm glad you liked how I've brought Brittany into this story, I wasn't so sure whether people will react well to it, but I'm relieved to know that you're fine with it :D Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**HungerFabrevans:** Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

Song used: "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Okay! Just a heads-up! This isn't the last part. You'll understand why after you've read this chapter, but just for this story, I'm giving you a 5-parter!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Mirrors**

**Part 4**

**Show me how to fight for now  
****And I'll tell you, baby, it was easy  
****Comin' back into you once I figured it out  
****You were right here all along**

I like to think that I've evolved as a person—matured, even—when life hits an unsuspecting roadblock, but I know better than to feed false perceptions to my person. Five months isn't a lot of time, but it's enough to sort out the cracks and uneven surfaces, and Harvard is just as everyone says it's going to be.

A major bitch and a fucking pain in my ass.

I blame the damn Asians.

Still, it doesn't exactly explain why I'm seated on my bed with a laptop propped on my lap, watching Sam Evans' latest video on his website. It's a new song—no doubt one that he wrote, of course, for he settles for nothing but his own—and he's done it acoustically, just his guitar and the soft rhythm of the drum box, filmed in a recording studio.

He calls often though, his multiple text messages flooding my inbox, but I suppose I'm still too stubborn to answer. It's going to take a lot more than those pathetic attempts to sway me.

"Are you watching his videos again?"

Shit.

Hastily, I slam my computer shut before turning to glare at my invasive roommate. A flimsy excuse threatens to escape my mouth, but Tina Cohen-Chang's knowing smirk is indication enough that I'm pretty much busted.

"Will you fucking stop that?" I snap, the annoyance failing to reach its full potential. "Where did you come from, anyway? You're like a damn ninja."

"I actually knocked," she informs me in amusement.

"If I don't acknowledge it, don't enter," I grumble, stretching my arm to reach for the cup of chocolate mocha from the dresser.

She snickers and flops down on her own bed. "I do live here too, you know."

"How can I forget?" I mutter under my breath.

A pillow sails across the room and lands on my shoulder, almost spilling the drink in my hand. Shooting her a dirty look, I return the favor with my better pitching hand, and feel a huge sense of satisfaction when it smacks her square in the face.

"Ouch!" she yelps, rubbing her nose. "Jesus, Quinn."

I arch an eyebrow. "Don't forget who you're dealing with."

"Why are you so defensive, anyway?"

Tina is a nosy busy body with nothing better to do than pry into my personal life. She's basically a hard-ass leech when it comes down to privacy, but damn is she a God damn good one, weaseling in like only a lawyer—or would-be lawyer—can. Relentless in nature—like every other fucking human being in this campus—she doesn't stop at anything.

"I fail to understand your accusation," I retort flatly.

She rolls her eyes. "Let me make it clear, then. You seem really invested in this Sam Evans guy. Do you have a crush on him, or something?"

Wow, spoken like a high school freshman.

"He makes good music," I reply as neutrally as possible, masking any semblance of emotion as I feign a nonchalant shrug.

"He's cute."

"He's not my type."

* * *

My cellphone vibrates on the desk, ultimately defeating the purpose of 'silent mode', and I lunge forward to grab it before it could awaken my roommate.

Tina is a heavy sleeper. A bomb could go off right outside the window and she'd snore through it, but the slightest buzz of technology and she springs right up. She's just so fucking weird.

His name flashes on the screen.

As it does every night at eleven-thirty.

I pause, debating if I should pick it up this time.

My finger hovers over the button for a second too long, and his call goes to voicemail.

I don't listen to it; I never do.

And before I can think to change my mind, my thumb presses on the other option.

Delete.

* * *

We're sitting in a circle, playing a lousy game of beer pong in my room on a Friday night—getting pretty much drunk as fuck—when Mike Chang—coincidentally, Tina's non-blood-related boyfriend—asks the elusive question that's been plaguing everybody's minds.

"So, Quinn, are we ever going to hear you sing or play the guitar?"

The slurred conversation around me halts as I feel the sudden weight of six pairs of eyes staring intently at me as though expecting to hear the secrets to the entire universe. Unfortunately for them, it might as well be.

I raise my red solo up to my lips, taking a huge gulp of the malt.

"Never."

* * *

That fucking song is stuck in my head, and I need to get the hell out.

It's pouring outside, the rain merciless in its pursuit to apparently flood the whole country, but I'll be damned if that's going to stop me now. Armed with the largest umbrella I can find—Tina's, of course—I brace Mother Nature and allow for my legs to take me wherever they want to go.

Half an hour later, my favorite leather boots are soaking wet from the puddles. The anorak proves worthless against the weather as trickles of water start seeping in, and I reckon it's about fucking time I head back.

But then I see him.

And for all unmentionable reasons, I stop.

A baseball cap sits low on his head, shielding half of his features. Yet, even from across the street, there's no mistaking the blonde hair peaking out from beneath.

Or those full set of lips.

Fuck, I think I'm losing it.

The sound of a bus pulling up by the curb jolts me out of my trance.

"You boarding?" the driver asks, a hint of concern in his voice, and I suppose I must look like a drowned hobo or something out in this treachery.

I blink, frowning at the man even though he deserves none of it.

"I ain't got all day, young lady," he clucks impatiently.

"No."

The dude drives off and involuntarily my gaze returns to that spot.

He's gone.

* * *

Tina left a post-it note on the mirror to inform me that she's staying over at Mike's for the night, and after taking a quick shower, I grab my acoustic guitar and seize the rare opportunity to write. The first few strums are tentative and experimental, familiarizing myself with the chords. One word slips from my tongue, followed by a line, and then a verse.

Before I know it, I have a song.

* * *

"How's my favorite blonde doing?"

I grin at the familiarity in his voice, gruff as always yet warm with tenderness, and it's only then that I realize how much I actually miss that son of a bitch. An image of him pops in my head, no doubt smoking a damn cigarette.

"Like I've gone to hell and back," I lazily reply, dropping the heavy textbook onto my chest and staring up at the blank ceiling. "What's with you Puckerman? Dreamt of me last night?"

He snorts. "Unless you're a red-head stripping on a pole."

"Fucking pig," I mutter with a smirk. "What do you want?"

"Can't a person just call and say hello?"

Sometimes I wonder why I put up with this asshole.

"Hello, now hang up. I have a ton to study for."

Puck completely ignores it, of course. "What's gotten your panties in a twist?"

"Nothing," I snap. "Fuck off."

He clicks his tongue. "Okay, now I know something's wrong. What's really going on, Quinn?"

My silence probably says it all.

"Are you in town?"

The words are barely audible, but he hears it nonetheless. "I'm an hour away, forty minutes if nobody decides to play GTA."

"Meet me at our usual?"

"Only for you, princess."

* * *

The cheap beer tastes foul on my tongue, like I've just scrubbed it with a dead skunk or something equally repulsive, but what the hell, I'm a poor student on a fucking scholarship. Puck drains his mug in four gulps; I swear, he's secretly a shit-eating Viking in disguise.

"Okay, spill," he demands, the somber expression somewhat foreign on his rugged features. "What's wrong?"

Tapping on the sides of the glass, I heave a tired sigh.

"I think I saw Sam the other day."

A laugh almost escapes my throat at the sight of Puckerman's gaping face, but he's quick to cover his initial shock with a cough.

"You think?"

"It was raining and it was hard to see, but I know Sam's lips when I see it."

He pauses for a bit. "You sure it's not someone else?"

I consider it for a moment, taking a hesitant sip of the drink. "I don't know."

"Maybe you need to stop watching his videos."

"Maybe I need to stop being in love with him."

* * *

Mock trials are the worst. Having two in a week is tougher than shitting bricks, especially when your opponents seem to reign from some evil corners of the world. Tina is a notorious team leader, and she's probably born with a whip in her hand, but nobody can deny her skills and strategy. She has me working my ass off till the wee hours of the night, but sleep deprivation is a great distraction.

There's a slight buzzing sound somewhere from deep within the piles of books and folders, and everybody sitting around the table freezes, eyes darting around, waiting for someone brave enough to search for the offending device.

"Whose phone is that?" Tina barks, breaking the deafening silence.

Nobody dares to utter a word, so she helps herself to it, diving into the stack. A chill runs down my spine when she fishes out an unmistakable cellphone and holds it up in the air.

"Admit, now."

"It's mine."

She narrows her cat-like eyes at me. "I thought I made it clear to everybody—"

"I know, Tee, I'm sorry. Just reject the call, okay?"

It's still vibrating in her hand, and I'm about to fuck whoever it is on the other end of the line so bad the next chance I get. Oh, God, if that's Puckerman, I'm going to knee him in the balls till they turn blue and fall off on their own.

"Last warning, Quinn." She goes ahead to turn the phone off or whatever when something on the screen catches her attention. "What the hell?" she cries out.

My head snaps up. "What is it?"

Tina shoves the offending device in my face. "You have some serious explaining to do."

She obviously recognizes his name.

Fuck Samuel Evans.

He always has the worst possible timing ever.

Snatching the phone out of her grasp, I shoot her a warning glare.

"None of your damn business."

* * *

"Let me get this straight; you actually know Sam Evans?"

I want to fucking stab her in the eye because she hasn't stopped yapping about it since the unfortunate discovery and my ears are a comment away from bleeding and screaming in pain. Refusing to answer her question for the umpteenth time in a row, I hastily avert my task to unlocking the door.

"You can't avoid this forever, you know," Tina perseveres, right on my heels.

"Just drop it, okay? I don't want to talk about him."

She disregards my statement completely, and I'm starting to wonder if anybody ever listens to me.

"I don't believe this, Quinn," she rants on as she strips off her ballet flats. "All this time you've been watching his videos, telling me that you're not interested and all that nonsense; is something going on with the both of you?"

"Nothing is going on—"

"How long has this been happening? Does he call you often?"

Seriously.

"God damn it, Tina, just stop—"

"Why didn't you just tell me the truth from the first day I asked? I mean, obviously there's nothing to be ashamed of—" She interrupts her own rambling with a gasp. "Are you ashamed of him? But I don't understand why that is, I mean, he's famous—practically a celebrity on his own—I know I'd probably be selling his phone number on eBay—"

"He broke my heart, Tee."

She jumps—startled by my outburst—and blinks.

"Oh, Quinn…"

I suck in a deep breath, turning my gaze to the window and mentally cursing the heavens. Somebody up there is probably having a fucking field day right now.

"And it still hurts."

* * *

I don't mean to play it—the song that is but bitter notes in my ear—and yet, my fingers only prove my self-depreciating glutton for punishment. Blindly, they strum those unforgettable chords, and before I know it, I'm singing those damn lyrics. It's ironic how much I loathe my own words.

"God, that was just fucking tragic," I remark to the empty room.

Suddenly, the door swings open and Tina barges in with an army of four on her tail.

"That was amazing!" she gushes, eyes wide with child-like amazement, you'd think she'd just fucked Mickey Mouse's ass.

"What the hell?"

Mercedes Jones sidles in next to me on the bed, beaming like it's Christmas and grabs my hand. "Girl, that was so good. You ought to sing more often."

Unbelievable.

"You guys were eavesdropping on me?"

Mike shrugs his shoulders. "Eavesdropping is kind of a negative context—"

I shut him up with a pointed glare.

"Why don't you ever sing for us, Quinn?" Blaine Anderson asks as his boyfriend, Kurt Hummel, nods in agreement. "Your voice is brilliant."

They're toeing precariously on my privacy—one that I don't share willy-nilly with just anybody—and a part of me wants to tell them to fuck off because interventions drive me up the wall and I hate it, even though I know that my five friends mean well.

"I'm not brave enough."

* * *

"Quinn?"

I glance up from the book, arching an eyebrow inquisitively. "What is it?"

Tina angles her laptop towards me. "You need to watch this."

She clicks on the play button as Sam's face fills the screen. That trademark acoustic guitar sits on his lap, the strap slung over one shoulder, and immediately I recognize his bedroom in the background. Seeing him catches me off guard. Something lodges in my throat, but before I can turn the computer away, he starts to speak.

"Hi, it's me again. Sam, I am," he pauses, as though amused by his own wit. "And I don't like green eggs and ham."

For that unnecessary shout out to Dr. Seuss, I just have to roll my eyes.

"So I've been receiving a lot of questions, and no, I don't have a girlfriend."

Tina smiles at my gob smacked expression.

"I have a best friend, though," Sam continues, and I feel a chill running down my spine at the implication of what he's about to reveal. "Her name is Quinn. She left to be the best lawyer in the world, and I miss her every single day, so, Q, if you're watching, this next song is for you."

"Shit…"

The song is heart-wrenchingly beautiful; one that I'd love to hate if it weren't so sincerely sung, and the abrupt onslaught of emotions that wash over me is so unexpected, I don't think I've ever felt something so intense.

"Tina," I grate out. "He's not fucking with me, right?"

"I doubt it."

**It's like you're my mirror  
****My mirror staring back at me  
****I couldn't get any bigger  
****With anyone else beside of me**

* * *

When my cellphone rings with his number on the screen, it takes everything in me to ignore it like I usually do. I tighten the grip on my ballpoint pen and force myself to look the other way.

The call goes to voicemail, and for that moment, I heave a small sigh of relief.

* * *

Those sneaky little liars.

"You told me that we're going to a bar," I growl, jabbing an accusing finger into Tina's chest.

She raises both hands up in surrender; slightly afraid for her own wellbeing since I probably look like I'm seconds away from ripping her arm off and cowers behind her boyfriend's sorry lanky self.

"We are," she sputters out. "This is a bar, is it not?"

I swear, if we were not actually in public, I probably would have made a run at her.

"You signed me up for the Open Mike without even consulting in me first," I screech. "Tina Cohen-Chang, what the fuck were you thinking? Give me one reason why I shouldn't commit first-degree murder right now."

"It's not Tina's fault, Quinn," Mercedes speaks up, ever the neutral mediator. "We were all in it together."

So help me God.

"Why the hell would you guys do that?"

"We think that you're a phenomenal singer," Kurt supplies, bouncing on the heels of his expensive shoes. "And we figure, such talent should not be wasted within the confines of four walls."

"Just so you know, I hate you guys right now."

* * *

Performing is addictive, and the surge of adrenaline that courses through my veins just by standing up on stage with the spotlight showering down on me feels like home. The guitar that leans against the high stool is such an enticing invitation—a gravitational pull that's so fucking hard to ignore—and my hands tremble slightly as I take position. Fighting against the glare, I struggle to identify the silhouettes.

"My name is Quinn Fabray."

The microphone picks out my voice perfectly, and a grin forms on my lips when I hear it on the feedback speakers.

"And this is my song."

* * *

I'm not sure how it happened but playing in Shaggy Bar becomes a regular thing. The manager likes me enough that he's given me a slot every Wednesday. I take the gig even though the payment's not much, and every week, I play to a different audience.

"You need to get signed, Quinn," Tina tells me, nodding like it's the most logical thing on the planet. "Remind me again why you chose Harvard over Berklee?"

"I want to be a lawyer, Tee."

"Come on, that's bullshit, and you know it."

* * *

My roommate does it again.

She goes behind my back and creates a fucking blog. I stare at it—horrified that she'd somehow managed to dig up a slightly decent photo of me—and wonder where she'd find the time to fix it up.

"My cousin owes me a favor," she says, as though reading my mind.

"Are you simply just unable to grasp the concept of 'leave me alone'?"

"Your page has ten thousand views as of last night."

I swivel back around to view the site, in time to see the hit counter increase by another five hundred.

"The fuck?"

"You're welcome."

* * *

My cellphone goes off while we're all huddled in the lounge room watching a movie, interrupting one of my favorite scenes—the one where the serial killer gruesomely slices the head off the brainless bimbo—and even before I glance at the screen, I know it's him calling.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

Tina regards me closely, tilting her head in that Asian-psychic way.

"No."

"It's Sam, isn't it?"

"Yes."

* * *

Later on, in the darkness of our room, just as I'm drifting off to sleep, Tina's voice jolts me back awake, and inwardly, I curse my fucking luck. I mean, what's a girl got to do to get some peace and quiet around here?

"You should give him a chance, Q."

"Don't call me that," I murmur absent-mindedly, rolling on my side so that I'm facing the window.

"But Sam—"

"Is only one who can."

The silence that follows sounds like a piece of heaven; that is, until she shatters it once again with another remark.

"Just hear him out, Quinn. I know that you're hurt and everything, but it'll do you good to swallow a little bit of that pride and take the hand that's trying to reach out to you."

* * *

I'm only vaguely aware of the time—of how long I've been sitting on the toilet seat in the bathroom, simply staring at the inanimate object in my hands. It could've been a minute, or five, or probably even an hour, and yet I'm no closer to a decision.

Tina's words are still reverberating in my head like an endless echo.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

There's no going back now.

Lifting the phone up to my ear, I wait for the singular beep before his deep voice filters out of the speakers.

"Q…"

I suck in a quick breath.

"Please talk to me."

* * *

It's exceptionally crowded at Shaggy Bar tonight and the stunning turn-up throws me off a little. Standing next to me, Puck lets out a low whistle, though he does nothing to placate the hyperactive nerves from doing backflips all over in my stomach.

"Jesus, Quinn," he says, eyeing the throngs of people in awe. "This place is finally alive."

I blink in confusion. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"I have no idea, but I see two hot blondes over by that corner with my name written all over their cunts. Good luck up there, princess."

He disappears into the sea of bodies and leaves me alone to fend for myself, that horny bastard. Cursing a lifetime of STDs to his ass and his penis, I flag the bar tender down for a mug of beer to soothe my jitters.

"Thanks, Rory."

"Anytime, Quinn."

The house lights dim down and immediately the chatter dies down to a hum—a cue for me to stand by—and as I take position on the raised platform, the warm rush of headiness bubbles in my chest. Hoisting myself up on the high stool, I cradle the acoustic guitar on my lap.

"Good evening, everybody, I'm Quinn Fabray."

A loud smattering of applause follows suit, and I'm pretty sure I just hear Puck leading the catcalls in his usual crude ways. For everyone's benefit, I flash him the finger; rolling my eyes when his only response is to sarcastically declare his undying love for me.

"Okay, so anyway, thank you all for coming tonight." Glancing out at the audience, I habitually scan the swarm of faded silhouettes. "I'm glad to be here, and I hope you will too. This first song was written three weeks ago, in my tiny-ass dorm room. It's nothing special or fancy, but I like it. This song is called 'Raindrops and a Face'."

* * *

I've never really performed this live before, so I never know how to begin.

Flexing my fingers, I gaze out at the obscurity in the room.

"I wrote this last song almost a year ago, when I was still a senior in high school. I wrote this with a friend—my best friend, actually—and it's not the best song, but it's definitely my favorite, so here it goes."

In the midst of the caliginosity, something at the corner of my eye catches my attention.

He emerges from the shadow.

"Sam…"

**And now it's clear as this promise  
****That we're making two reflections into one  
****'Cause it's like you're my mirror  
****My mirror staring back at me, staring back at me**

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, so…I have decided that I have one more part to write. It does initially end here, I'm not going to lie, but this isn't going to do the story justice, and there's a lot I need to straighten out, so one more part it is!

**OhHeyAl:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you found the awkward scene hilarious! I had so much fun with that scene! I know that the previous chapter was pretty devastating, and so is this one, especially with the major lack in Fabrevans scenes. The next part is going to be interesting, I promise!

**Dosqueen67:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad you liked how the awkward sex scene turned out! LOL! Yeah, I mean, not everybody's first time looks like a scene out of a movie, and I would think with Sam and Quinn's polar-opposite personality, it's definitely not going to be romantic in any sense. LOL! Apologies on the "cove". It's an inside joke between my friends. Frankly, what you found hard to read, I found it hard to write. Them straying away is not my favorite at all, but I had to do it for the story. Well, of course in this chapter, Sam admits in a video that he is single, so what happened between him and Brittany? I'm not concluding it just yet. I've decided to add another part because endings like the one I wrote for this story suck bad and a little anti-climactic during a climax (does that make sense?). Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter! More Fabrevans next!

**Pieceofcupcakes:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous part! I really appreciate it! LOL! I'm glad you liked the awkward sex bit and found it realistic. I mean, not everybody's first time looks like a scene out of a movie, right? That rubber-hat joke really did happen; not to me, but a friend, and I just had to include it in. Of course, this being a story told from Quinn's POV, we all tend to side with her more, especially since Sam was being a jerk after everything. I totally agree with you on Quinn feeling like she's been used, but I promise you there's an explanation to that coming up in the next part :D So, yeah, I'm breaking my 4-parter rule and putting up one final installment for this story, so I hope you'll stick around for that! Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Helloooooooo! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, even though the previous chapter made you a little upset. Apologies for putting you through such an emotional roller coaster! Yeah, the boyfriend/girlfriend over best friend thing sucks, but that's the whole theme of the story. Admittedly, Sam is a jerk, but Quinn—even though slightly vulnerable—is strong, and is teaching Sam a lesson. I'm glad you picked out the part where Quinn is allowed to pursue music with Sam even though she's going to Harvard, but here, she is choosing not to. She doesn't want to be his go-to for everything, or his last resort when Brittany isn't available. There's still one more part to the story, though, and it'll involved an explanation on Sam's part :D Hope you've enjoyed this!

**Guest (1):** Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate the comments!

**Nicole:** Hi girl! I've always loved your reviews! They're so colorful and never fail to put a smile on my face! LOL! Thank you for taking time to rant :D Hope you're feeling well after the whole haze episode in Singapore. I'm so sorry for being so cruel. I know how it feels, writing about all that sexy Fabrevans time only to rip it away with Brittany, and honest to God, I think I punished my keyboard for it. I may have damaged a few keys while getting the chapter out. It was like chewing on sand paper. Sam, in his defense, is probably just confused, and like you said, a tad bit naïve, and possibly too nice of a guy to reject Brittany. Of course, that doesn't justify his actions, or his oblivion to Quinn's feelings, but she's a strong girl, and she wants to teach Sam a lesson. LOL! I love that little bit of Taylor Swift in your review, and that hidden message thing. It's a great insight! This part, obviously, isn't the finale to the story. It initially was, but then I'll just end up being an ass-hole for such shitty ending, and I want to do justice to Fabrevans, so there'll be one more part left to this story. A 5-parter! LOL!

**Ashley:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! LOL! All of us here want Sam and Quinn together, myself included, and don't worry, it'll happen. This isn't the end of the story, though, there's still one last part to the story :D Hope you'll stick around for that!

**Jenny:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! I'm glad you agree on the intensity of the chapter :D Yeah, I had a great time at the wedding, thank you! This chapter isn't the last part. There's one more to come!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I really appreciate it! LOL! Looks like your wishful thinking is coming true, because I have one more part to add to this story, so this chapter isn't the end. I will definitely be writing more fics, and right now, I have a couple at hand to finish up. WIME is slowly but surely ending, and I have THA just screaming for my attention, so those ought to keep me busy for a while. So back to this story, I totally understand you empathizing with Quinn. I mean, yeah, the change between her friendship with Sam totally suck, and I wish it didn't happen, but it did! For me, nobody is particularly the bad person in this story. Sam is perceived as such because it's in Quinn's point of view, but yeah, he is a jerk for neglecting his best friend. I love a strong female character, and I want Quinn to be that person that isn't dependent on anybody, and that's a lesson she wants to teach Sam, that she can go on with or without him. One more chapter to go! Hope you'll stick around for it! Cheers!

**Quams:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! LOL! I apologize for putting you through all that distress and pain. What you find tough to read, it was tougher for me to write, believe me. I'd love for them to just sit down and talk it out, and perhaps that will happen in the next part!

**Guest (2):** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

**xXalienatedXx:** Hello there! Thank you for reading my story and reviewing all 3 chapters all at once, as well as the other reviews that you've left on my other stories! I really appreciate your time! I'm glad you like how I've portrayed Quinn in this story. I love a good, strong female lead :D I don't really like Sam in this story as well, but I suppose because this story is told in Quinn's point of view, there's probably a bit of biased opinions, and I'm sure Sam has his reasons and his side of the story. You nailed the theme of this story right in the head. Best friend over boyfriend/girlfriend. Anyway, hope you've enjoyed this update! One more part to go!

**Mandorac:** Hi there! Whee! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! You always know the best things to say, and I truly appreciate it! LOL! I'm glad you liked how I described Brittany because I always have this mental illustration that whenever she talks, rainbows and unicorns spew out. So yeah, things did change for the worse between Sam and Quinn and their friendship have been compromised. You totally got it about Quinn and being in love with Sam, and she actually admitted it to Puck in this chapter. As much as it hurts for you to read about Brittany and Sam, it pains me even more to write it. I might have slammed a little too hard on my keyboard, and maybe I might need to get a new one now because my 'a' and my 't' aren't working too well. I love all your theories on what will happen between Sam and Quinn! You actually have it well figured out! Just this once, I'm breaking my 4-parter rule and adding in one more part. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**G:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and I understand how you feel about Quinn, and how Sam seems to be such a jerk. I promise you that it's going to be a good ending—nothing tragic—and hopefully it won't disappoint you!

**Brenda/NayaholicJustForNaya:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like how the story is playing out, even though some parts are a little more than heartbreaking. Could you perhaps copy the link for the GIF again? I can't seem to view it .

**Agronderwood:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! Don't worry, though, Quinn is definitely not going to sleep with Puck :D

Song used: "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Ready? Here we go!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Mirrors**

**Part 5**

**Yesterday is history  
****Tomorrow's a mystery  
****I can see you lookin' back at me  
****Keep your eyes on me  
****Baby, keep your eyes on me**

I hate that he can ignite such a spectrum of abated emotions just by existing three feet away from me. His familiar striking green eyes—guarded yet soft with a twinge of vulnerability—hold mine prisoner in that short time it takes to hop onto the raised platform and join me on stage.

"What—what are you—"

He silently reaches for my guitar and pulls the strap across his shoulder, adjusting the instrument in his hold. The corner of his lips twitches up in that God-forsaken smirk, and as he takes his position to my right, his shoulder brushes against mine in the close proximity. Almost immediately, I'm hit with the comforting muskiness of his cologne. Flashbacks of those nights back in high school crashes over me like a fucking freight train, and all I want to do right now, is run.

"The fuck, Sam?" I mutter through gritted teeth.

"Do you trust me?"

Before I can even choose to deflect his question, he takes my hand in his calloused ones. His touch sends an electrified jolt zapping through every nerve ending in my body; an involuntary gasp escaping my throat. The feeling is unfathomable—like a shit-storm waiting to happen—but then his gaze snaps up in that ambiguous way and all hell breaks loose in my head.

"Just like old times," he murmurs and places my fingers on the fret.

I grant him a tight-lipped smile that probably passes off more as a grimace than anything.

He strums the first chord and clears his throat into the microphone.

"Hi, I'm Sam Evans, and this is our song."

* * *

With a burning determination, I march straight for Puckerman while he's still chatting up some airhead missy, yanking on his arm as he yelps in protest. The beer spills all over his hand, dripping down to his worn-out biker boots.

"Would you excuse us?"

"What the hell, Quinn?" he sputters after I've dragged him to a quieter corner.

"You did this, didn't you?" I say, jabbing a finger onto his chest in accusation as I glare daggers at his less-than-sober face. "You set this whole thing up."

He raises his hands up in surrender, eyes wide and glazed over. "Blondie, you're not making any fucking sense."

I don't know if he's just being annoyingly obtuse on purpose, but I'll chalk it up on the alcohol because I wouldn't want to have to kick his sorry ass in front of his potential bedfellow. Stripping him of his male ego isn't as satisfying if there's nothing in it for me.

"Don't you dare tell me that you have nothing to do with it."

Puck blinks; genuinely confused. "I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Sam Fucking Evans, God damn it," I snap back, completely losing any semblance of patience that I have left in my person. "You told him, didn't you?"

I watch as realization dawns upon his rugged features. "Oh."

"Oh?"

His eyebrows spring up to the ceiling. "I didn't tell him, Quinn, I swear."

"Really? Do you seriously take me for some fucking idiot? You're going to stand there and tell me that you have absolutely no idea that he's going to be here—"

"He didn't have anything to do with it, Q."

I whirl around at the sound of his voice; the way he pronounces my name in that low timbre, the slight drawl luring me in like a moth to a flame. It's a dangerous weapon—one that I hope he's unaware of.

"Hey, Puck," Sam greets casually with a wave.

My Mohawk friend extends his mug, nodding in acknowledgment. "Sam."

Those piercing eyes land on me once again.

"Can we talk?" he asks softly.

A scoff almost makes it past my lips.

Is that a trick question?

"Oh, you kids go ahead," Puck interjects instead. "Don't worry about me."

He staggers off, swaying on his feet, and I have half the mind to take him by the collar and force him into staying put because there's no fucking way I'm facing Sam Evans on my own.

Not yet.

"Quinn?"

Shit.

* * *

Awkward silences never did work for us and it still doesn't, but here I am, sitting in Sam's seemingly brand new car with the stereo turned on to the minimum, and for the first time he has all but left me at a loss for words. There's an unmistakable tension between us that I'm just itching to burst because another second of this fucking mess and I think I'll suffocate from the thickness in the air.

"Q?"

My spine stiffens unintentionally.

"Yes?"

"A dress? Really?"

I glower back at him. "Cowboy boots, Samuel? Really?"

He chuckles sheepishly, keeping his focus on the road. "Touché."

Glancing down at the pastel flower prints, I wonder if I should tell him, but then Tina's advice rings in my ears, resonating like the fucking pain in the ass that she is and it kind of makes a decision on its own.

"I found it while I was packing my stuff. It was mom's."

He grows quiet for a bit.

"It suits you."

* * *

Somehow or another, we find ourselves at a café—such a romantic comedy cliché. The coffee is still way too bitter after three sachets of brown sugar, but the lukewarm temperature of the dark liquid is a soothing welcome as I cradle the cup between my palms.

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you."

"How'd you find me?"

He stares at me a little longer than he should.

"I never stop looking."

* * *

Eventually, we need to get past the short-lived conversations and just swallow the damn pill because we're just stalling, and this is going nowhere. We're treading on eggshells around each other; I'm sure diving into a stack of needles is probably less painful than this. The place is empty now with nobody else around and the barista is preoccupied with her cellphone.

"You wanted to talk, right? So talk."

Sam drums his fingers on the surface of the table and gnaws on his bottom lip.

"You didn't answer any of my calls or text messages."

I should've known he's going to start with that.

"I've been busy."

He sighs and cards his fingers through his blonde hair. "You're honestly going with that?"

"What do you want me to say, Sam?"

There's a slight pause.

"You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?" he mumbles, the vulnerability evident in his tone.

"Sam…"

"What happened to us, Q?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

* * *

I'm suddenly all too aware of the girl behind the counter—that same damn barista—who's now watching us with growing interest, as though she's witnessing the last few seconds of the Super Bowl, her cellphone long forgotten.

What the fuck?

"Hey, are you sure you can hear us from there? Do we need to speak a little louder for you?" I quip sarcastically.

Her face flames up as she hastily scrambles to make herself useful for a change.

"You need to stop doing that," Sam says in mock seriousness.

Idiot.

"Let's get out of here."

* * *

We don't get far because barely three feet from the car, Sam catches my wrist and spins me around with more force than necessary. Our chests collide, both heaving with effort as I glower into his equally blazing eyes.

God, half a year and he's turned into a fucking Neanderthal; the bastard.

"Stop man-handling me, you dickhead," I snarl, shoving him away.

Can I please just slap him now?

"You avoided me like the plague," he growls, low and perilous as he slowly advances, one deliberate step at a time.

There's an accusation in his tone that I can't stand, and I'm thinking he's got some nerve—and a death wish—trying to pin the blame on me. Digging my heels to the ground, I straighten defiantly against his attempt to intimidate me, but the poor puppy obviously has forgotten whom he's dealing with.

"For your information, I wasn't avoiding you; I blatantly ignoring you," I retort. His towering height forces me to tilt my head up a little, and I curse the heavens for his tall genes.

His gaze smolders in the chill of the night.

"Why?"

"Because I knew that if you had it your way, I would've stayed with you instead," I fume, losing all guises of composure, and I reckon I loathe him even more for that. "I would've argued with my dad on attending Berklee, and in the end, I'll always be your fucking second best. I didn't want to risk taking that chance."

A flicker of emotion glazes over his features.

"So you ran. From me."

In that split second, the fire dies a little.

"I did what I had to."

"You completely erased me out of your life. I accepted your decision, Q, but I still can't understand why you pushed me away when we could still be best friends."

"Because I don't think I could've settled for that."

The words echo hauntingly in my ears, and immediately I wish I could take it all back.

"Quinn, I—"

"You were a fucking pain in my ass, Sam—the bane of my entire existence—and it's pathetic how my life revolves around you, but I can't do that anymore." There's a lump lodged in my throat and I struggle to swallow it down. "I want my own life; one that revolves around me, and when you're around, that doesn't happen very often."

"That's not a good enough reason to hang me out to dry."

I dart my eyes back up to trap his. "I did no such thing, Samuel. In case you've forgotten, I wasn't the only girl in your life."

"But you were the only girl that I needed."

A humorless, sardonic laugh escapes my lips.

"Bullshit. Where were you when I needed you? Where were you when things changed with us? Because I've always been there when you weren't, Sam. You left me alone while you were out screwing around with Brittany."

"I wasn't screwing around with Brittany!"

"Then what else were you doing with her?"

"Trying to get over you."

**'Cause I don't wanna lose you now  
****I'm lookin' right at the other half of me  
****The vacancy that sat in my heart  
****Is a space that now you hold**

* * *

I have no idea how we got here; the moments in between were a blur.

In fact, everything is a fucking blur.

One minute we're standing on the pavement, lashing out at each other, and the next we're playing tonsil hockey against the side of his car. He makes a mad grab for my waist, his touch achingly reminiscent of that fateful night as he brings his hand up to cup the side of my face.

"We're not done yet," I gasp into his mouth.

"I know," he murmurs against the skin below my jaw.

Damn it.

"Sam, we shouldn't—"

He shifts just so between my legs and it's nearly impossible to ignore the bulging hardness in his jeans anymore.

"I know," he repeats, almost inaudibly as he burrows his nose into the juncture of my neck, but doesn't halt in his ministrations. If anything else, his kisses become incessantly urgent, his tongue tracing the contours in the hollow of my mouth.

I tug suggestively on his belt loops, and automatically, his palms trail up my thighs, stopping dangerously short of my embarrassingly dampened underwear.

"Fuck, Sam."

"Oh, I definitely plan to."

* * *

God, I sincerely hope that this whole sex-in-the-car doesn't become our thing because it's proving to be a major bitch. I don't dig the leather seats at all, and the space—or lack thereof—just won't do it for me.

"Sam," I breathe, squirming slightly underneath his weight.

Dexterously—with a suspicious amount of skill—he snaps the clasp of my bra.

"What, Q?" he sighs at the sight of my bare breasts now in full display for his viewing pleasure, and it's kind of difficult to concentrate when he's staring at my goodies like a fucking triple chocolate ice cream sundae.

"Did you and Brittany ever—"

"No."

His penis pokes precariously at my opening and it sends a shiver running down my spine.

"Never?"

In one swift thrust, he fills me to the brim.

"Never."

* * *

"We've definitely gone a full circle with this."

Sam chuckles into my chest; one arm draped across my waist as he lazily draws circles onto the swell of my hip with his index finger. God, he's such a Cuddler, I'm mildly embarrassed for him, actually, but if he weren't so damn comfortable, I'd probably haul his heavy and sweaty ass off my person.

"Yeah, we have," he agrees, dropping a kiss directly above my heart.

We share a moment of hiatus even though my mind races with unanswered questions from earlier on. Still, I refuse to be the first to breech the subject; I have way too much pride for that, and if the slight increase in his pulse is of any indication, he's probably thinking about it too.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it."

Eventually, he breaks the notion of our silent movie.

I'm almost afraid to ask. "About what?"

"Our first time."

"Why not?"

He hesitates for a bit and suddenly, the weight becomes too much, and I suppose he senses it or something because he eases up a little. His eyes are downcast, the guilt marring his boyish features.

"Because I never really wanted it to be a one-time thing, Q."

It's like a punch to my gut; that confession long overdue.

"Why not?"

"Because I've been in love with you for the past five years."

**Show me how to fight for now (please show me, baby)  
****I'll tell you, baby, it was easy  
****Comin' back here to you once I figured it out  
****You were right here all along**

* * *

The urge to slap him is ridiculous.

"That's not funny, Samuel."

His brows furrow in slight confusion. "I wasn't trying to be."

"You better not be saying what I think you're saying, or so help me God—"

"I love you, Quinn."

* * *

I don't think I was ever programmed to process such information; it's overwhelming and suffocating at the same time. The stretch of road ahead is strangely lulling, and with the windows down, I allow for the wind to dance in the wisps of my hair, not caring that it's probably going to tangle like hell after this.

"Q…"

"Why now, Sam?"

He expels a breath of air and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

"You didn't want anything to change between us," he begins. "But I was hoping that night would change your mind. Sure, our first time was awkward as hell, and you were so nonchalant about it, I just—I was at a loss, Quinn. I've tried everything to let you know that I was crazy about you since day one, but nothing seemed to work. My only option was to attempt to move on."

"Sam—"

"I had to respect your wishes because I couldn't stand the thought of losing you, but I suppose it doesn't make much of a difference, anyway because I still lost you."

There's a crack in his voice that gnaws on my wall of defense, but I refuse to give in, knowing that if I were to even look at him right now, that my composure would crumble to dust. He clears his throat; the sound so excruciating to my ears.

"I thought that if I went out with Brittany, that maybe my feelings for you will disappear, but all it did was push you away. When you left, I just hated myself for everything—for hurting you, for not fighting for you—and I think it didn't really sink in that you were really going to Harvard until I walked by your house one day and your car wasn't in the driveway."

I've sworn to myself that I wouldn't cry.

Damn it.

"Perhaps a part of me was still in denial, or just foolishly thinking that you'd turn the car around for me, and even then, I tried to move on, you know."

From the corner of my eyes, I see him rake his fingers through his hair.

"Brittany broke up with me because she didn't want to wait till I finally got over you. As much as I tried to hide it, she wasn't as blind as everybody thinks. She saw that she wasn't the one I needed. I guess I never knew what I had till it was gone."

I don't even realize the tears streaming down my cheeks until he pulls up by the road shoulder and gently wipes them away with the sleeve of his shirt.

Damn it.

Why am I being such a pussy?

This fucking emotional wreck is so unlike me in all aspects.

"I'm sorry, Q. I should never have—"

"I'm sorry too."

* * *

I awake to an ear-splitting scream—one that can shatter windows from a mile away—and bolt upright to find Tina Cohen-Chang standing in my doorway with a mortified look on her face; cat-like eyes as wide as saucers while I scramble to hide my modesty.

We're close, but not nearly close enough.

"The fuck, Tee?"

"There's a person in your bed," she remarks.

Oh, for Pete's sake.

"I am aware of that, yes."

"Quinn Fabray, what did you—"

"Babe, please tell her to shut up," Sam grumbles from underneath the duvet.

"What the hell, Quinn?" she shrieks. "Is that Sam Evans?"

"Just give her an autograph, Q," he snorts, snuggling deeper into my very naked side. "Maybe that'll chase her away."

Rolling my eyes, I reach for the nearest pillow before pitching it to the Asian female. It lands squarely on her face with a light plop.

"You heard the man. Get out."

* * *

She pounces on me the first chance she gets; it's not like I haven't been expecting it.

"Okay, spill," she demands, cornering me the moment I seat my butt on the couch. "And don't leave out any details."

"He needed a place to crash for the night," I shrug, knowing she'll pick up on my bullshit anyway. Why bother lying if it's not going to help the situation?

She frowns, clearly not amused, and sometimes I think Tina needs to loosen up a little. Is she not getting any from Mike?

"You're seriously going to go with that? On Harvard grounds?"

"I decline to answer that on the grounds that I don't fucking want to," I quip back with a smirk. "If you have a problem with that, you may speak to my attorney, or I'll have you slapped with a warning for badgering."

"Spoken like a true lawyer."

* * *

"So I take it 'congratulations' are in order."

Trust Puck to make a joke out of everything. Accepting the mug of beer in his hand, I slide onto the high stool next to him and take a sip of the cold malt.

"You two kiss and make up?" he asks, playfully wagging his eyebrows.

"Shut up, Noah."

He snickers for a bit, but then sobers up. "Did you tell him?"

The water droplets forming on the mug suddenly become relatively interesting to look at, and he knows that I'm avoiding the question.

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't think I'll be able to handle it if things change again."

Puck leans in, his dark eyes piercing through mine in that uncanny way of his.

"Even if the change is for the better?"

* * *

Noah is right, though, unfortunately.

I need to tell him.

* * *

**Now you're the inspiration for this precious song  
****And I just wanna see your face light up since you put me on  
****So now I say goodbye to the old me, it's already gone**

I suppose he knows, but I send a text message to Sam anyway, summoning his presence to my regular Wednesday gigs. He arrives ten minutes before I'm scheduled to play and greets me with a kiss, effectively leaving me breathless when he traces his tongue across my teeth.

Damn that son of a bitch.

The house lights dim just then, cueing me on stage, and after flashing him an apologetic smile, I take my position in front of the microphone.

"I wrote this first song last night, and I've never really played it in front of anybody before, but I'd love to share it with each and every one of you here. This song means everything to me. It's about a girl who finally realizes what her feelings mean, and the boy who's patient enough to wait for the time when she does."

Searching the sea of silhouettes, I spot him amongst the shadow of faces.

"To my best friend, Sam, I love you too."

**And I can't wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, to get you home  
****Just to let you know, you are**

* * *

**A/N:** The end! And that's it! A huge thank you to everybody who's followed/favorite/reviewed this story. You support means a lot to me, and truly, I wouldn't be able to complete this without your constant encouragements and motivations. Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for sticking around, reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad to know that you've enjoyed the previous chapter even though there aren't significant Fabrevans scenes in there. I'm also happy to know that you like the friendship going on with Puck and Quinn. They're a hilarious pair! Sam uploads videos on his website and what not, and I suppose he does have live performances (as seen at the start of this chapter). I hope you've enjoyed the ending! Cheers!

**Quams:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my previous chapter! I really appreciate it! I'm glad that you liked it, despite the lack in Fabrevans scenes in there. I enjoyed writing the Puck and Quinn scenes because they have such great basis for witty banter :D I hope the wait isn't too long for you! Because it's a fresh chapter that I hadn't planned on writing, it took me a while to complete. Hope you like it!

**Pieceofcupcakes:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I truly appreciate it! I know that this story is a little one-sided, considering it's being told in Quinn's point of view, so I reckon it's a little unfair on Sam's part. He's not the bad guy, really, just that people always think what they want to think, right? I'm glad you picked out the obvious part about them being in love and not admitting it. Hit that right on the target, and yeah, I suppose somewhere along the way, Quinn figures out her own feelings even though a part of her is afraid of facing them head on. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the ending! Cheers!

**J.D. Toulouse:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving me a nice long review! I really appreciate it! I'm flattered, thank you for the lovely comments! It's nice to know that I did Quinn's character justice. I mean, her character is all over the place in the show, she's like bipolar or something, I don't know, but that's a good thing because it gives me so much room to play with and still make her sound like…her. I'm glad you liked Tina! I mean, if she had more screen time, I would think she'd make a less pushy Rachel. Not saying that it's a bad thing, though, because her lack of storyline in the show enables me to develop them in my story, so it all works out. I hope you've enjoyed this story and how it ends. Let me know what you think, yeah? Cheers!

**s. inthehouse:** Hello! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! Apologies if I'd caused any distress to your person with that ending, I should learn to be a little kinder to my stories :D Well, if Quinn was indeed pregnant, this story will take on a full story instead of a five-parter, and I totally agree on the crazy bit. LOL! I know my update is a little late, but I hadn't planned on writing a fifth part, so I have to actually write this chapter from scratch. Either way, I hope you've enjoyed it!

**Ashley:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I hope this ending is long enough for you, and I know I took some time with it, but it's only because I had to write this chapter from scratch instead of editing them like I did with the other 4 chapters. Hope you like it!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a lengthy review! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you still liked the previous chapter even without the Fabrevans interaction (unless you consider that last bit an interaction). I know that this story is Quinn-centric and it's one-sided, considering it's told from her point of view, and thus a little biased on her part, but it's because of that, we're able to see Quinn's flaws, that maybe she ought to give Sam a chance to explain himself. It would've saved her—and him—all that trouble. It's like what Tina said in chapter 4: "it'll do you good to swallow a little bit of that pride and take the hand that's trying to reach out to you". I suppose somehow or another, she took the advise in the end, and all that stuff happens in this chapter. LOL! Honestly, you don't have to apologize for anything. I would've made this a 5-parter regardless because I know that leaving it at the fourth part is a major injustice to the story and characters. Thank you so much for the wonderful comments, and of course, I'll always be able to write and update as long as I'm able to :D Hope you've enjoyed this ending! Cheers!

**NayaholicJustForNaya:** Hi there! LOL! OMG, please don't die! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! Well, because this story is told in Quinn's point of view, there will definitely be moments where she's being unfair and stubborn. I mean, people think what they want to think, and this is where we get to see Quinn's flaws. Sam is not the bad guy in this story even though Quinn makes it look like it is, so yeah, I would say that she plays a part in their fall-out. I'm glad you liked the friendship between Quinn and Puck! Those were my favorite to write because they just bounce off each other so well. That scene where Quinn sees Sam across the street, that was the most difficult to write. I had five drafts of that scene alone and it almost broke me. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the ending of this story! Thank you so much for the wonderful comments! Cheers!

Song used: "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake

**P.S:** I'm being told that I'm a finalist in the 2013 Glee fanfic awards! I wasn't even aware of it, but apparently, I've been nominated enough times to be named a finalist for the 'best mystery fic' and 'mystery fic writer' for my story Whisper In My Ear! Whoots! To those who have made the nomination, I'd like to thank you so much from the bottom of my heart! It truly is an honor! People are encouraged to vote, but no obligations. Do what you think best suits you. The link: gleefanficawards2013*dot*tumblr*dot*com.


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